The Origin of Dreams
by ASouffleToServeTwo
Summary: "The next time you dream, give some thought." After a group of Byrgenwerth scholars led by enigmatic student Laurence discover a forbidden miracle inside ancient catacombs, the city of Yharnam - and all of their own lives - will change forever.
1. Blood

**A/N: This story is my attempt to do for Bloodborne what The Army of Four did for Dark Souls. That is, a character-driven, lore-ridden take on the world before we knew it in the original game. Please give any fredback on how to improve the next chapters, and, most importantly, enjoy. For the Sky and Cosmos are one.**

 _"Sometimes I believe that this less material life is our truer life, and that our vain presence on the terraqueous globe is itself the secondary or merely virtual phenomenon." - H.P. Lovecraft, "Beyond the Wall of Sleep"_

 **Chapter One: Blood**

The torchlight illuminated the door in front of them. Tainted with the constricting grasp of ancient greenery and encrusted with white, powdery tomb mould, the old stone arch appeared to be in less than stable condition.

There was next to no guarantee that opening it would not cause a landslide.

The man at the head of the party, a scholarly-like man with thin bones, an aged, wizened face and dazzling blue irises, pointed at the peculiar symbol which marked the door.

"Look at the rune," Caryll whispered, gesturing to the mysterious symbol carved upon the stone surface. "I've never seen this one before."

The woman who stood next to him, a noble girl with faded dull blonde hair, nodded in agreement with her colleague.

"Perhaps it is a warning," Maria replied. "Come now, we have already trodden far enough today. The gods may not be best pleased with our actions."

The party's leader, a tall, scholarly-type wearing a long trench-coat and fedora, snorted, making his indigence very clear.

"The gods have no say now... They are all deceased, after all. Open the door."

Maria frowned. "Laurence, is that entirely wi-"

"I said do it," Laurence snapped. "We haven't trudged through miles of catacombs just to turn back at a foreboding symbol. Open it!"

Caryll, the party's scholar and runesmith, rolled his eyes as he set down his torch and unfurled a scroll written on a silken parchment. His eyes bobbed up and down rapidly as he scanned the words on the page, inhaling their worth and exhaling their meanings.

"And so, the One who birthed the cosmos and the kin of its population breathed deep at last, for all was complete."

Laurence sighed. How many times had he heard this same passage? It was the only one that Caryll had thus far translated perfectly.

"But fearing... I can't get this one... The One whose heart beats with the moon did... uh... something it's child of the cosmos... That's all I've got, sorry."

"Did I ask for a runic lecture?" Laurence growled. "I said get this door open!"

"I was merely checking for hidden malices," Caryll smiled, as he put a single hand on the surface in front of him. "This door is unlocked. And I want to find out why."

The old stone door swung inwards at the light touch, white dust clouds cascading from each and every crevice. Shafts of a peculiar pale light pierced through these openings as the door slowly moved apart from its rest, causing Caryll to frown.

"Is that light? We're several hundred feet under the earth! What could possibly be casting it?"

Before the Runesmith could pontificate further on the matter, he was hit in the face with a blast of ancient odor. It was a deep, pungent rot, peeling away at the insides of his nostrils like a razor.

"Oh dear," he wheezed, using his cloak to cover his nose and mouth. "Doesn't smell too fresh to me."

As he gained his composure, he peered out into the room that the door had revealed. It seemed to represent more of a cavern than any of the previous sections, appearing much more natural in structure. The walls were overrun with strange white flowers, each paler than a corpse, yet larger than a human head, with petals that each stretched out the same length as a hand. The floor shimmered slightly in the light of the room, indicating its dampness.

And, at the very back, cast in shadow and practically motionless, was an enormous, malformed shape.

Laurence shouldered into the room, his eyes twinkling as he took in the extraordinary vision. He was followed shortly by Maria, and behind her, her travelling companion, a thin young man wearing a brown jacket and matching hat.

"Master Willem will want to hear about this," Laurence whispered. "Actually, all of Yharnam will."

"How could it flower down here?" Maria asked, tentatively brushing her fingers against one of the unearthly flora on the wall.

"Adaptive biology," Laurence replied. "They have grown used to the dark, and have flourished by some other means. Without extensive study, I could not tell you."

"They appear to be glowing," Caryll added. "In fact, I believe they are casting the light in this room."

"How extraordinary," Maria laughed. "They're... beautiful."

Her male companion laughed at this. "Imagine beauty flourishing in this damp sinkhole..."

Maria rolled her eyes. "And you would know so much about beauty, wouldn't you Gehrman?"

The man's eyes narrowed slightly, clearly displeased at the challenge. "Forgive if my eyes do not light up at the glow of a puddle."

"What is that, there in the corner?" Laurence asked, pointing a inquisitive finger at the odd shape in the distance.

"I'm not sure," Caryll admitted. "We must get closer."

The party crossed the room, worn shoes slapping against the wet floor tiles. The peculiar shape in the distance grew larger, the group's proximity slowly revealing elongated, limb-like appendages and growths. The closer they got, the deeper the cold dread grew in each of them.

As Caryll took another step forward, straight at the head of his party, he stopped, one hand raised to his head as though injured.

"Ah!" he cried. "My head is pounding the closer I get. What is this?"

Looking about himself, he saw a similar reaction in all of his companions, some of which now had their fingers pressed to their foreheads.

"I... I can't think..." Laurence cried. "It's like... there's tiny insects... crawling all over my brain!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Caryll saw the monstrous shape in front of them slowly rearing up. A round, bloated skull with pinkish, anemone-like feelers was dragged up from the cave floor, long tentacles unfurling and pushing against the ground to help move the enormous creature around. Tiny green irises which could be assumed as eyes blinked erratically, as though awakening from a deep blanket of sleep.

The sound of blood roaring in Caryll's ears grew in tandem with the creature's sluggish, wet dragging movements, the sound of which gave the impression of a mollusc's slither, magnified several times to a terrifying pitch.

Within thirty seconds the unholy abomination had pulled itself completely around and was regarding the group with an icy, blank stare. The pulsating in the group's heads intensified as their eyes met with the creature's own.

For a long time, there was unearthly quiet. The explorers were rooted to the ground, incapable of moving away from the eldritch vision that slithered in front of them. Indeed, their brains felt fit to bursting with the creature's aura - the energy it seemed to emit from simple proximity.

Eventually, when silence was more than anyone else could take, Caryll gave a feeble 'Hello?'

The creature blinked twice, as though considering the sound, but did not make any attempt to communicate a response.

Encouraged by the lack of a vicious response, Caryll raised a tentative hand, as though to wave at the creature.

The thing's eyes tracked every twitch in his fingers, but still remained stationary and silent.

Just as Caryll was about to pose a question to his colleagues, a voice cut through his words like a sabre.

"Die, you unholy filth."

Caryll turned in time to see Maria's companion, the gruff rogue Gehrman, draw out a pick from his excavation tunic and throw it hard in the creature's direction.

The pick flew straight into the beast's side, its murky irises following the projectile until the moment of impact, upon which, it recoiled violently, tentacles flailing out and a deep, guttural sound emerging from its crevasse-like mouth.

"Gehrman, what are you doing?" Maria shrieked, angrily pushing at the man's shoulder.

"This thing is an abomination," Gehrman snarled, shaking off his coat as though it had been tarnished by dirt. "Are you seriously suggesting we just let it live?"

"It wasn't attacking us!" Caryll growled. "And, what's mor-"

The runemaster's sentence died unfinished as he was yanked off of his feet by an elongated tentacle, which proceeded to drag him several feet into the air, upside down, and coil around his ankles.

"Caryll!" Maria cried.

The beast started to convulse, the tentacle that snared Caryll swaying like a pendulum. Within a few moments, the pick that pierced its hide popped out like a cork, viscous crimson blood spewing out.

Within seconds of having his feet constricted, Caryll felt the bones in his legs snap like mere matchsticks, unimaginable and inconsolable agony shooting up straight from the pressure point to his waist.

The creature eventually relented its constriction - when there was no feeling left in Caryll's limbs but searing agony. With a gurgled, harrowed cry, it threw the scholar aside with ease, sending him flailing into the adjacent wall.

The sickening thud of flesh upon stone stirred Gehrman up. He was already drawing another pick from the sheath on his waist as the creature rounded on the remaining three, eyes blazing with a cool fury unlike anything seen in the waking world.

Laurence and Maria started to back up as the creature put two tentacles upon the earth and started to push itself towards them. Gehrman leapt into action, pick in his right hand and blazing torch in his other. The beast's eyes sparkled in the torchlight, blinking as though captivated by this peculiar human invention of mobile illumination.

As Gehrman got within striking distance of the beast, it suddenly reared back, two tentacled arms swinging out to strike the excavator.

At such a distance, he had no choice but to take the hits. The creature's arms slammed into his stomach, instantly doubling him over and knocking him limply to the ground. The pick in his hands clattered away across the ground, the torch splint hitting a puddle at a sideways angle and hissing as it was extinguished upon the dampened floor.

As Gehrman lay groaning upon the ground, the beast drew close to the fallen torch, eyelids still fluttering as though in disbelief. The sizzling splint, flat out on the ground, let out whispers of smoke that curled and rose upwards. Mesmerised by these, the creature let out another unearthly cry - this time, not one of pain or of anger, but of awe.

"Laurence, what is this being?" Maria asked her companion, as the pair of them continued to retreat away.

Laurence mulled the answer over for a few moments. "I have no idea - but I thoroughly intend to find out."

Gehrman spat hard on the wet pave as he slowly prised himself off of its gravelly plateau and drew up to full height. There were very few parts of him that did not ache, but the pain only served to sharpen his mind; bring his desire for retaliation to the boil.

Finding his pick a few feet away, Gehrman cast a cautious glance at the creature - still distracted by its eerie fascination - before making a sweep for his weapon. The mining tool was chipped, but nevertheless, battle-ready, and he gripped it tightly in his hand as he turned toward the monster.

Across the room, Caryll stirred from unconsciousness. The pain in his lower body had been extreme - it had caused him to slip under.

Of course, when his eyes flickered open and he remembered where he was, he wished he'd stayed under a little longer.

'Could this be?' he pondered. '...one of the beings that the Pthumerians spoke of? The Gods that walked among them?'

As he lay he observed the creature that had broken him, limbs flailing, angelic butterfly wings flitting, anemone pulsating...

'Well, these Gods are far from our classical expectations...'

But now, he saw Gehrman approach the creature stealthily, stabbing it hard in the back with his cave pick, the beast exploding with another banshee shriek as it manically swept around, tentacles writhing in search of something to squeeze like a lemon.

Gehrman leapt up and over the attacks, wary now of the creature's movements and unwilling to let himself be fooled by them again. He withdrew his pick, tip now coated with red, and raised it over his head, this time aiming higher.

The creature's head pivoted, fixing Gehrman with a glare that send convulsions through his core. But, he didn't let up, stabbing the beast straight through the left side of its fleshy pink face.

This time, the creature's cries could be heard from the surface.

Gehrman dropped lightly to the ground, unscathed by the barrage of wild swipes that were directed at him. Writhing in pain from the cavity that now formed half of its features, the beast stooped its head and started to shudder - awful brown slime trickled out in splatters from each convulsion.

Satisfied with the damage that he had inflicted, Gehrman drew out his last pick, preparing to end it.

Suddenly, the creature reared back up, letting out a screech that nearly haemorrhaged the group's ears. Gehrman, who was the closest in proximity to the beast by a good few metres, dropped to his knees as his body lit up with agony, his very flesh rippling with frightening energy as though he were rigged to explode. The beast, eyes lit up by murderous fury, started to slither closer.

When it was within touching distance, it reached up with one of its grotesque tentacular limbs and plucked the projectile lodged in its skull straight out, twirling it in its grip a few times to shake off the blood.

Still gripping the pick hard, the creature drew its arm back.

From a safe distance, Laurence felt a strange admiration for this creature.

'It's going to throw that at him,' he thought. 'Just like Gehrman did. It's learning from us!'

A subtle smile crept onto the scholar's lips.

Gehrman watched as the beast attempted to judge the throwing distance, eyes bobbing about ineffectually. As its tentacle came thrusting forwards, the tomb prospector was already halfway across the floor away from it.

The projectile soared through the air that Gehrman had vacated, sailing onwards with vicious linearity.

Laurence did not have time to react. A hollowed fear flashed in his eyes, but his body remained rigid as the pick punched through his chest. A gasp escaped his lips, followed by a trickle of blood.

Then, his legs caved inwards and he dropped to the floor, back sliding down the wall.

"Laurence?!" Maria shrieked. "Oh, gods!"

Caryll shut his eyes, trying to blot out the image of his compatriot's mangled form.

Gehrman grit his teeth, twirling his last pick angrily between his fingers. The creature turned to look at Gehrman, something wicked - arrogance, or glee - lighting up its malformed features.

"You'll pay for that," Gehrman whispered.

The dissipated torchwick still lay a few feet away on the ground. His invisible lightbulb - an unsung evolution that all humans carry over their heads - flashed on, and he made a brief gaze at his target, still a few feet out of range, and darted for it.

The creature, as though sensing the newfound courage in its opponent, bowed its head, and started to drag itself along the floor at a frightening speed - faster than it appeared possible for such a lumbering beast to move.

Gehrman reached the shaft of wood about five seconds before collision. Tearing it from the ground and holding it in front of him with his left hand, he seized the pick in his right hand, and with a heavy push and a grunt, slid one into the other.

Turning, he saw the blue and pink blur rushing at him, and, reacting on very little but reflex alone, spun his new makeshift blade in its direction.

The beast recoiled, multicoloured blood streaming from the wound in the centre of its head. Gehrman's spear stuck fast in its pink flesh, quivering under the strains of the creature's agony throes, but holding fast.

With a fading cry so feeble it could have been made of smoke, the creature fell away against the cave wall, and sat there, shivering and convulsing.

Gehrman drew a breath. The floor was stained with a miniature inlet of red, but the creature did not appear to be within the clutches of death.

'I'll finish it later,' Gehrman thought. 'For the time, let it huddle in the corner.'

The prospector grinned as his gaze was met by Maria across the way, who seemed completely unharmed.

Alas, the same could not be said of Laurence, who had gone still at her side.

Caryll was crawling across the ground towards Laurence when Gehrman reached him, lowering a hand for the scholar to grasp.

"Is it bad?" Caryll asked, gazing at the hand but not reaching out for it.

Gehrman shook his head. "You'll walk. Just take my hand."

Caryll smiled wistfully. "I know when you are lying, my friend. My legs are gone."

Gehrman hesitated, then nodded.

"Aye, but you've still got your winning personality."

An explosive splutter turned the pair's heads.

"Laurence?" Gehrman asked, astonished. "You're still alive?"

The scholar, who still had the brunt of an excavation tool jutting from his torso, nodded feverishly.

"It's astonishing..." he gasped. "My wounds are all but fatal... but look at me!"

As demonstration, the scholar stood upright, revealing his unbroken spine.

"But how?" Caryll whispered. "How?"

Gehrman eyed the floor, seeing the trail of viscous red that led from the wall where Laurence had landed, to where he now stood. The scholar's clothes were drenched in the blood, far too coarse and widespread to be his own.

"Laurence?" Gehrman said, as calmly as he could manage. "Let me see your wound."

The scholar raised his shirt to reveal a small scarring around the entry wound. Aside from that, there was no other damage to speak of.

"But... that's..."

Laurence laughed. "Impossible? Improbable? It may well just be one of those ventures... I mean, where did you learn to fight like that?"

Gehrman looked down at his own blood-sodden clothes. The hood and gloves were torn in places, but the jacket was nearly unscathed, save for the peculiar bloodstains.

"I have no idea," he said. "It just... came out of me, I suppose."

Laurence nodded, as if something had been confirmed for him.

"Indeed, it seems there are unholy miracles at work. This creature, whatever it is, is key to it all."

The tentacled beast continued to writhe against the wall, blood slowly seeping from its wounds.

"Then we must secure its capture," Maria interjected.

Gehrman stared at her, incredulously. "This thing? Live? After what it did to Caryll? To Lawrence?"

Maria met his fearsome gaze without fear. "You attacked first, Gehrman. Don't forget that."

Laurence, ignoring the bloodsoaked Gehrman, turned to Maria. "Send word to the surface. I want twenty men down here with ropes and launchers before sundown."

As if comprehending the fate that awaited it, the beast let out a strangled, pitiful cry.

(-)

"It's open."

Laurence's closed fist fell to his side, and he pushed open the ornate ebony door that led to his master's office.

Willem was sitting quietly in his round-backed chair, staring through the window at the college grounds. As Laurence walked in he cast a brief glance in his direction.

"The prodigal son returns," he said. "And with new findings, so I hear."

Laurence smiled, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it over his chair.

"Not just new findings, Master. The finding of the century."

Willem's eyes fluttered ever-so-slightly. "Please, do tell. What of this peculiar blood that I have heard so much about?"

"Everything the Pthumerian Archive spoke of was true," Laurence began, lathering his speech with a dollop of the dramatic. "Great Ones, beings of immense power and intellect, are real. We have captured one."

"So I hear," Willem replied, allowing his chair to tilt back slightly as he mulled over Laurence's words. "Apparently you sustained some considerable losses on your expedition."

Laurence's eyes darkened. "Yes. Caryll has been hospitalised, but it is near certain he will never walk again. And... well, master, I nearly died myself. But I was brought back by the most peculiar of means-"

"Blood," Willem cut in. "But not your own. The blood of that creature."

Laurence nodded slowly, remembering. "The Pthumerians call her Ebrietas. It means 'Fallen Star' in their language. We believe this 'Ebrietas' is only a child - a daughter of the boundless cosmos - that has been left behind by her parents."

"Intriguing," Willem enthused. "And you believe Ebrietas' blood... is some kind of... I don't know... cosmic miracle?"

Laurence waited patiently for his master to finish. "A cure-all elixir, master. The final evolution of medicine."

Willem turned to look at Laurence fully for the first time in their conversation. "Bold words. Can you back them up?"

"Laboratory-run tests using droplets of the blood show a 96% healing factor on all subjects tested. This blood heals typhoid, cholera, cuts, bruises, broken bones... Even scurvy. The only affliction it seems unable to cure is blindness."

Willem remained silent as Laurence listed off his magic cures. Finally, he said "Extraordinary."

Laurence grinned. "Master, it goes further than that. Regenerative healing is just the baseline - all of our scientific trials purport that this elixir enhances the human body in incredible... impossible ways... Our senses, our physical strength... Apparently, we may even see an increase in our life... Doubling, or even tripling the human lifespan... Isn't that amazing?"

Willem slowly rocked forward in his chair. "And yet, no cure for Caryll's disabilities?"

Laurence shook his head. "He has refused to be treated with the blood. He is afraid of it, in spite of all we have seen of it's remarkable ability."

Willem smiled now. "A smart man, for certain."

Laurence snorted. "Or a fool without a speck of insight. Can you see what this can mean for us, Master. Byrgenwerth, the scholars who cracked immortality!"

Willem's smile faded, like steam on a window pane. "How grandiose. My boy, does this all not seem a little... hasty? This blood, what if it is not all that it appears?"

Laurence's mouth hung open. "But, master, there have been tests, I-"

"Inconclusive," Willem snapped. "You should draw back for now. Investigate this blood, and its source, more thoroughly, before you make bold decisions. At this rate, I fear that your hubris will be your undoing."

Laurence's surprise quickly turned into anger. "Master, forgive me, but I fear you are being short-sighted-"

"And I fear you are being blind!" Willem shot back. "Your research is promising, but for now, it is just that. Research. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, master," Laurence whispered, head bowed. He could practically feel steam rising off his shoulders.

Willem nodded. "Good. Continue the research, but pace yourself. The last thing we want is some horrific tragedy being pinpointed on Byrgenwerth..."


	2. Sight

**Chapter Two: Sight**

The Erlenmeyer flask began to sizzle. Simmering white froth started to pour, then cascade, over the rim of the trembling glass, hitting the wooden desk with a splat and a hiss that was not unlike an acid. Within the chamber, several jolts of static electricity rebounded off the glass before fizzing out.

"It seems this one is a failure," the Plague-beaked doctor huffed.

His colleague, a round man clad in black and silver robes, was quick to cut him off, though. "Failure?! My boy, this is perhaps the most success we have had yet!"

The masked doctor turned to his companion. "But, Dr. Archibald, the blood will not catalyse in this solution! In fact, it rather sends it into... a frenzy..."

Archibald chuckled. "It's certainly volatile, but at least the effects are visible! These findings must be written down, Paarl! See to it!"

The dumbstruck doctor nodded slowly, removing his mask with a tug and approaching a lab table strewn with papers at the other end of the room.

"Some may even call this result... 'shocking'..." Archibald chuckled.

As if the forces of the universe had corralled to try and intercept his awful pun, the door of the lab was suddenly opened creakily. Laurence, draped in a white uniform, walked into the room.

"Doctor, what news?" he demanded.

Archibald spun round, quickly losing his composure at the sight of his grumbling benefactor.

"Sire!" he cried, somewhat unnecessarily. "We are making great leaps with our experiments on the blood. Great leaps! I wish to inform you ho-"

"Quiet!" Laurence snapped. "I wasn't talking to you, you blathering idiot. I was talking to your colleague here."

Paarl just shrugged as Archibald turned to stare at him angrily. "I'm afraid there have been no successful catalysts, sire. The blood remains unsafe to distribute for human applications."

Laurence curled his fist, gazing longingly at a nearby animal cage as though he intended fully to smash it to bits. Instead, he let out a long sigh. "Tarnation. That fool Willem will be proven correct before long. We haven't got long, you understand?"

Paarl nodded, practically visualising his funding, lab equipment and position all falling away to sand before his eyes.

Gesturing now to Archibald, Laurence continued. "He is a valuable asset, but only if he is kept on task. Don't let his mind wander, Paarl, you hear me?"

"Yes, sire," Paarl nodded.

"Hmmph," Laurence grunted, prodding a discoloured flask on the desk with his finger before moving away. "I will return before the week is out."

After the door had swung closed, Archibald rounded on Paarl like a rolling thundercloud.

"I am in charge of this research, Paarl!" he snarled. "Do not assume to usurp me or push me out. This is my laboratory! My equipment; my research!"

Paarl nodded quickly. "Of course, Dr. Archibald. Forgive me, sire."

A big, goofy smile drew across Archibald's mouth.

"All is forgiven," he beamed. "Now, bring me a 50 Megawatt battery and two jumper cables, stat!"

(-)

Gehrman lay back in the chair, right arm hanging limply by his side. His left arm, coiled by some kind of medicinal sling, was flat on the table beside him. A tube protruded from one of his veins, and red ran all the way through the plastic to a large, rusty-grey installation on the far side. Every few seconds, the metronome on the desk would ping, and a dial would turn on the big steel machine.

"How curious," Archibald whispered.

Gehrman, who sat perfectly still and patiently awaited results, now forsook such civilised behaviour and sat up straight like a pylon.

"What?" he growled.

Archibald's eyes seemed to actually glimmer. "Your body... it's supercharged... Brimming with energy... Tell me, have you been struck by lightning as of late?"

Gehrman let out a deep, aggravated sigh. "Something like that."

"It's... wonderful," Archibald chuckled. "Why... you have become a human power outlet..."

"Speak to me in words I understand, damn it!" Gehrman launched himself out of the chair, tearing the bloodied needle from his arm. The nearly seven-foot giant of a man towered over the dwarf-like Archibald, and he stepped towards him slowly, fists curling.

The sight of it was enough to startle Archibald, who cried out "Spare me! Oh, meeting of man and god, let me live! Spare me!"

Gehrman looked down at his fists, scrutinising their bunched appearance - almost as though he could not recall why he had curled them in the first place. With another slight sigh, he let his arms fall to his sides.

"What is happening to me, Doctor?" he groaned.

Archibald cautiously put a hand on his shoulder. "You have communed with greatness, my friend. You are the herald of humanity's new dawn. Beacon of our ascension."

"I communed alright..." Gehrman said, letting out a pitiful laugh. "Then hacked and slashed to ribbons."

"Gehrman?"

The tomb prospector looked up as he saw Maria heading towards him across the room. Almost immediately, he felt a little lighter, if not quite enough to let him drift away like a feather.

"Is it bad?" she asked, rushing to his side. "Are you going to be okay?"

"He's going to be more than okay, m'lady," Archibald declared. "He is going to be... Great."

"Oh?" Maria's gaze shifted between that of her friend and the black-robed doctor.

"Physically, there is nothing wrong with him. In fact, from what tests I have conducted, I can make several conclusions. Firstly, I-"

"Another time," Gehrman interrupted, turning away from the doctor and to his smiling companion. "I have missed you, Maria."

Maria smiled. "But, it has been but hours..."

"Too long..." Gehrman grinned.

The pair embraced, leaving Archibald to stand around awkwardly, prodding his test vials.

Maria drew back, beaming at her companion. "You look healthy. Your eyes... you appear more alive than ever before..."

"I feel it," Gehrman laughed. "Like I could run a mile, or raise a hunk of iron over my head, or-"

"Well, lets think smaller for now," Maria interjected. "How about something to eat?"

"How about everything?" Gehrman smiled, patting his belly.

(-)

"Come in, Caryll."

The Runesmith was taken aback at the sound of Willem's voice from through his closed door. "But, Master, I am yet to knock..."

The Master of Byrgenwerth College sat forward in his chair. "I hear the rattle of your wheels from halfway across the college. I will get the door for you."

Willem slowly rose from his chair and crossed the room to the door.

Caryll had adapted quickly to the loss of his legs, and despite the tragedy of his circumstances, he appeared somewhat comfortable with his new position. He even smiled at the appearance of his master.

"Master, thank you for your assistance, but it was not necessary for you to leave your seat. I am perfectly able to open this door myself!"

Willem patted his shoulder. "I know you are, my friend. But I need the exercise myself. Too many thoughts whizzing through my head. Come, let us go outside."

The college master wheeled Caryll through his office, carefully navigating the neatly-stacked, precisely-ordered shelves and tables. Upon reaching a large set of doors, Willem set Caryll's chair down, and moved to open them. With a loud creak and a whoosh of air not unlike a strong wind, the large oak doors swung open, bathing Willem's office in the white light of the moon.

"It is a beautiful night, is it not?" Willem asked his student, wheeling him out onto the college balcony.

"Indeed," Caryll replied. "Events as of late have truly sharpened my sight. The moon is far more divine than I remember."

The gentle swill of the currents below was all but separated the night from complete silence. The stillness was tranquil - even the grey clouds trawling the sky seemed to drift slower, as though enjoying themselves.

"I have been conducting more research on these 'Great Ones', Master," Caryll began. "The Pthumerian journals we discovered in the catacombs are most enlightening. They believed that each Great One served as some kind of representative of natural order. They speak principally of four. 'Amygdala, the bringer of knowledge.' 'Oedon, the bringer of spirit.' 'Flora, the bringer of compassion.' 'And Kos, the bringer of-'"

"Sight," Willem nodded. "We have much to learn from these Great Ones. Their knowledge could be enough to ascend humanity to the next stage of our evolution."

"My thoughts exactly, master," Caryll said. "All this talk of blood and cure all-healing distracts us from the true pursuit: knowledge."

"We need more insight into this world, Caryll," Willem sighed. "If we are to become akin to greatness, we must learn to think like them."

Caryll did not reply. The crisp sea breeze was the only sound for miles.

"You are my most-favourite student Caryll," Willem said eventually, eyes fixed on the horizon. "Laurence is ambitious, intelligent and bold, but he is far too rash for my liking. But you have followed my teachings - not like a lamb to a shepard but a wolf to its pack. You have taken my work and built upon it, without detracting from it."

Caryll felt a warmth surge through him, taking away any thought relating to the bitter evening wind. "Thank you, master."

Willem nodded. "You and I must stand together against this. We both believe that this blood is a thing to be feared, not embraced. I sense that our beliefs will be challenged. Byrgenwerth will soon change. Are you ready for that?"

"Always, Master Willem," Caryll replied.

"Then we will wait," the college master declared. "And we will see."

(-)

Maria watched, fascinated as Gehrman tore at the leg of lamb in his hand, coming back for more every time she was sure he had been finished, seemingly never fully-satiated.

"You have a fearful appetite, my friend," Maria laughed.

Gehrman smiled as he took yet another savage bite from the meat. "Nothing seems to quite fill me."

Maria started to twirl her spoon inside of her empty bowl. Watching Gehrman eat so ravenously had annihilated her own appetite.

"What do you think of all this?" she asked. "Isn't this just... crazy? To think that the Pthumerians were right about all of this... Communion with the cosmos..."

Gehrman swallowed his mouthful. "I think... Well, I think it's going to change the world. But I disagree with Laurence. Creatures like this 'Ebrietas'... They are not wonders to be marvelled at. They are abominations to be destroyed."

"How can you say that?" Maria cried. "Think of the knowledge we could gain from them? The advancements we could make... I-"

"If these truly are gods, then they have no place amongst mortal kind," Gehrman said. "But if they are but stronger beings than we... Apex predators... Then our goal should be to rid ourselves of them. Think about it. What happened to the Pthumerians? That once-great race... Reduced to feral stragglers... What would you say was responsible for that?"

"It is not for me to say," Maria replied quietly.

Gehrman sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to argue. We have been through a lot, and are stronger for it."

"Yes," Maria smiled. "And the future is yet unwritten. But we can be certain that our names will make the history books."

"I should like that," Gehrman concurred, setting down his latest stripped leg bone on top of the graveyard on his plate. "May I walk you home?"

"You may."

Yharnam was bustling with activity, even in the middle of the night. Street vendors waving multicoloured vials and dubious animal meats shouted out at Gehrman and Maria as they passed. Golden light flooded over the damp grey cobbles from the hundreds of illuminated windows and street lamps. To call it beautiful would be to ignore the congregations of rats that scurried about the cobbles and the open sewer grates that wafted pungent foecal scents across town, but that isn't to say that there wasn't a rough beauty in its sights.

Maria's home was hardly the diamond of this rough. Somewhat dilapidated on the exterior, with dulled out window panes and rickety wooden walls, it was a modest, if unsightly, abode.

"Well, here's me," Maria said, almost wistfully, as she turned to bid Gehrman goodnight.

"Maria, how can you live in a place like this?" Gehrman asked, gruffness replaced by something rare - concern?

"My financial position is not a happy one, but, as you can see, I am a happy lady. I make the best of the life I have, with no privileges to speak of."

Gehrman smiled warmly. "You are welcome to stay in my home any time you wish, Maria. Do not force poverty on yourself."

With a tilt of his cap, Gehrman stepped back into the moon-swept streets. "Goodnight, my friend."

Maria waved. "And to you."

With the door closed behind her, Maria let out a deep sigh. A droplet of rainwater splattered onto her head, causing her gaze to drop to the carpet.

There was a letter on the rug.

A letter with a seal that Maria knew all too well.

"When will you leave me be?" she whispered, clutching the summons in her fingers, before tossing it straight into her stove.

As the smell of smoke and burning wax filled her nostrils, Maria's thoughts were of home.

And they were not happy.

(-)

Laurence entered Archibald's laboratory at noon the following Friday. Paarl met him at the doorway, a smile spread across his face.

"Sire, I believe we've got it."

Laurence dropped his scowl immediately. "You catalysed the blood for consumption?"

"Quicksilver solution," Paarl answered. "It acts as a bonding agent between our two different bloods."

"We need to conduct trials immediately!" Laurence boomed. "Send out for test subjects."

"Not necessary!" Archibald cut in. "We've found a man. Rom!"

Laurence looked round as a small, hunchbacked man hobbled out of the shadows. Timidly, he approached the trio, his miniature Byrgenwerth robes swaying.

"Good afternoon, sire," the man whispered toothily. His lack of eye contact made it difficult to concern who, if anyone, he had addressed particularly.

"Who is this, Paarl?" Laurence snapped.

Paarl shrugged, and Archibald stepped in once again. "Rom here is a medical degenerate. Low intelligence, poor physical condition - he is perfect for a clinical trial."

"Has he volunteered for this?" Laurence asked, gazing at the shrivelled man.

Rom nodded excitedly. "Oh yes, sire. I volteered when mister Dr. Archibald told me about the experiments. Sire."

Laurence sighed. "Very well. Inform of any and all developments."

Paarl watched Laurence leave, his brain begging his feet to follow suit. But, motionless he stood, before turning to Rom.

He was dribbling from the corner of his mouth now.

Paarl let out a deep breath.


	3. Communion

**A/N: The scene in the lecture hall takes inspiration from Lovecraft's 'From Beyond.' I will be attempting to homage other works of his throughout the story, and am excited to see how you think they match up. Please leave any feedback you may have, and thank you!**

* * *

 **Chapter Three: Communion**

"Master Willem?"

Laurence looked out across Willem's study. At first, he could not see any sign of the Byrgenwerth master, but a sudden movement - a creak and tilt of a bookcase, drew his attention.

"Laurence," Willem replied, turning to face Laurence. The scholar recoiled slightly at the sight of the blindfold across his master's eyes, but soon enough, his initial terror at the alien vision turned to confusion.

"Master, what is the meaning of this?"

Willem frowned. "Of what, my dear boy? Oh, of this?"

The collegemaster gestured to his blindfold and chuckled.

"I have taken to wearing it during my meditations. The silent darkness is comforting; rather like sleep, if more productive... I find that there is much more enlightenment to be found where there is no light to be found."

Laurence did not attempt to conceal his dismay.

"What is the point of owning all of these books if you prefer blindness, Master?" he asked, more mocking than concerned.

Willem's reply did not echo his student's jeering; in fact, it's tone was remorseful, if anything. "Oh, Laurence. I had quite forgotten how you have been caught up in your own vision. Your own blindness, should I say? Only yours is permanent. A black tunnel with no openings."

"My vision goes far beyond yours, Master," Laurence retorted. "If we all followed you, Byrgenwerth would remain a nothing - a place of no value. I can create a legacy for this place, and the men and the women who have contributed to our greatness."

Willem continued to rock forward and back. When he spoke again, it was quiet - almost disconnected, like it was aimed in no particular direction.

"We must pay our respect to such an awful natural power," he began. "The Old Blood is just that. Something to be feared, not embraced."

"Maybe one day you will see the truth, Master," Laurence sighed, staring at the blindfold on his master's head. "But I doubt it."

Willem heard the creak of the door as Laurence left, and smiled sadly. Laurence's last words stung, but not because of how pointed they were.

"I could say the very same of yourself, my child," he whispered.

Only the white shimmer of the moon received him.

* * *

Gehrman was alone.

He was waist-deep in an enormous, bloated puddle of water - a tide that churned and swayed like a maelstrom, threatening to tug him down.

Only, the body was not water, but a tide of crimson red. Blood. The sickly sweet smell of decay had the scholar doubled over and gagging.

The smell was ripe and pungent - not even the overflowing sewers of Yharnam's poorer districts was as nauseating as this.

Gehrman felt the pull of the blood trying to drag him down. It was like a quicksand, but with tiny little hands clinging to his legs and waist. He tried to pull up, but only sank a little deeper.

"Panicking only drags you down quicker, my friend," said a gentle voice. Maria.

Of course she would be an expert on quicksand. Was there anything she didn't know?

Only, the tug of the swirling blood was now but a distant memory in Gehrman's ailing mind. Something new was present, pulling his attention.

He saw it first in the corner of his vision. A ripple on the surface of the puddle - but at that point, he saw nothing. Only when the waters parted, and a long, emaciated claw drove itself up through the vortex did the scholar take true notice.

The claw was followed by a long, contorted arm. Blood trickled down the limb as it surfaced, not simply dripping off but actually falling away.

Whatever this thing was, it did not slumber in blood - it was made of it.

Gehrman tried to struggle away, but by now he was waist-deep, and the movement made no avail to his perilous situation.

The blood tide parted once more, and another demonic claw rose from its surface, followed by a long, furry snout. Long, sabre-like fangs glinted in the darkness as the creature's jaws opened, blood dripping out of the gaps in its mouth.

As the creature pulled its whole upper body from the waters, Gehrman started to tremble. It started in his arms, and quickly spread to his shoulders and head. It was a sickening, paralysing fear, accompanied by nausea and inertia. Such feelings were only intensified as the wolf-like sapient opened a pair of bright yellow eyes and fixed them sternly on Gehrman's ailing form.

The creature's gaze was like a plume of fire. Gehrman felt his skin singe as the creature gazed at him with a feral anger and, more frighteningly, a hunger.

The monster started to crawl forward. Sickeningly slow in its movements, which was all the worse. It knew it had all the time in the world to prey upon this trapped form.

The blood-beast closed the distance within a minute. Gehrman swallowed hard as he saw the creature's terrible jaws tear open right in front of his eyes. The acid taste of bile flooded his mouth as a long, sodden tongue stretched from the creature's mouth, flickering towards him.

At this point, the scholar woke up.

He was lying on his back in bed, the covers cold and damp beneath him. As he sat up, panting and near-feverish with fright, fresh beads trickled down his flesh.

"Just a dream, just a dream," he whispered to himself, taking a swig from a glass of water beside his bed.

Wiping his hand underneath his nose, Gehrman slowly rose from his covers, but froze as he caught sight of the back of his hand.

His fingers immediately felt for his nostrils, coming away similarly-stained in murky red.

The scholar quickly pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep breath.

"What is happening to me?" he whimpered.

* * *

When Maria arrived in Byrgenwerth's Lecture Hall it was already nearly full. Quiet, fearful students sat rigid in their seats, watching their master and teacher, Laurence, as he paced back and forth at the front of the room, choosing to stare at his feet rather than make any acknowledgements to the assembly that was sat patiently in front of him. Something crossed his features and he suddenly looked over at Maria. Upon seeing her concerned look, he gave a feeble smile, and gestured to one of the few vacant seats in the hall, apparently now ready to begin his address. Seeing Gehrman sat with Paarl and Archibald on the end of the nearest row, she quickly took a seat with them, just as Laurence pulled down the blackboard at the front of the hall. Chalk in hand, he began to etch.

"As you are all well aware, our excavations of the catacombs beneath Yharnam recently led to a magnificent discovery," he began. "We found a creature – a being - known only in legend; folk lore. Real. And living beneath us all along."

As should have been expected, this line raised excited murmurs amongst the crowd. Laurence waited for them to peter out before continuing.

"The discovery of siderite ore was just the beginning, it appears, of Byrgenwerth's voyage into the unknown. We are embarking upon a journey of discovery, taking us to the heavens above our moonlit skies. Truly, I believe we are on the verge of discovering humanity's final evolution. And it all stem,s from this."

Laurence held aloft a vial so the crowd could see it. Its contents were a familiar murky red, but with a peculiar glimmer that was untypical. Still, it was unmistakably, blood.

"This heavenly blood can accelerate medical science beyond the scope of our meek visions," Laurence continued, swilling the contents of his vial. "With the aid of quicksilver solution, dissolved in an Erlenmeyer flask, this blood can be taken by humans as a cure for any ailment."

The crowd launched into another wave of discussion. Caryll, who was sat in his wheelchair just off to the side, noticeably leant back in his chair, which creaked quietly.

"The discovery of the Old Blood is a landmark in Byrgenwerth history," Laurence assured the crowd. "The Great Ones have dipped their toes in our waters, daring us to follow them to the stars. To their plane. And we must answer their call."

"But if these beings are akin to Gods, then how can we ever hope to match them?" a random student called.

Laurence pointed to the board, where he had drawn a strange symbol. "Communion! This is how we will meet with our Gods. We will talk to them."

The same voice replied almost immediately. "How?"

Laurence smiled for the first time in his address. "We are already on the brink of successful communication. One of our own, the faithful Rom, has been subject to various experiments with the blood. We believe he has gained a certain insight into his donors, the Great Ones."

On cue, Rom stepped in front of the crowd. Laurence looked to him, gesturing with his arms.

"Tell them, Rom. Tell them what you have seen!"

Rom closed his eyes, raising his arms to a peculiar position reminiscent of a clock. One arm remained rigid, firmly above his head, whilst another remained level with his shoulders. The crowd started to mumble.

"Reserve your scepticism, please!" Laurence called, silencing the masses. "We are still but children of the cosmos, but every step we have taken has been to great avail. Have faith in your scholarship. Have faith in Byrgenwerth."

With the crowd gone silent, Rom's previously inaudible mutterings spread through the hall. At first, they were nearly incomprehensible, but suddenly, as though a switch had been thrown, it all changed, and Rom opened his eyes like a flash of lighting.

The audience gasped as they saw his dilated, round black eyes, but were silenced once more as he began to speak.

"The sky and the cosmos are one," he said. Looking out over the audience with a glassy, vacant gaze, as though looking beyond. "Tonight, we pay tribute to a special guest. He is all around us. He is next to that chair, right now!"

A startled audience member followed Rom's pointed finger to the empty space beside him. Laurence, seeing Rom rile up the audience, chimed in. "Of whom do you speak, insightful Rom?"

Rom answered quickly. "Formless Oedon. He watches you with curiosity – he sees that I see. He wants to make himself known."

The scholar at the centre of Rom's attention yelped as his chair was suddenly rocked from behind by an unseen force akin to a great wind, sending him flailing to the ground. Another audience member was quick to retort. "Tis all smoke and mirrors! Like a séance, or a magic show. Sire Laurence, what is the meaning of this pantomime?"

Hearing the man's cries, Rom looked in his direction, eyes still firmly planted beyond the man's form. "Your doubt is misplaced. You remain blind, with little cause. I will permit you to see."

The sceptical man recoiled slightly at the tone of Rom's voice, and opened his mouth to reply once more. Only, the words never came, as a shriek of terror erupted from his mouth.

"There's a hand upon your shoulder, sire!" he shrieked, pointing frantically at Rom. "It is unseen, and yet seen! How is this possible?"

"Oedon has sought communion with us tonight," Rom replied calmly. "He wishes to dissuade the non-believers. Humanity, like the Pthumerians before us, has earned the right to see."

Rom turned to Laurence, and said quietly. "That is all. For now." Following this remark, his eyes shut sharply. When they opened again, his pupils were returned to normal.

Laurence looked out over the crowd. He saw Gehrman and Maria, and the horrified looks on the faces. The horrified look mirrored by every man and woman in the crowd.

And he smiled.

"It is okay to be afraid. In fact, it is natural. I expect nothing less of any of you. But I hope you can also see what I see. What Rom sees. And what our master, Provost Willem, fails to see. Tonight, I have granted you all eyes, and I hope now they will never close. Thank you."

* * *

It took around half an hour for the auditorium to empty. Laurence fielded frantic and fearful questions from frightened scholars as best he could, but he soon found the reality of being such a knowledgeable figure to be overwhelming.

"For all that I have discovered already, there is still so much to learn," he said quietly, addressing nobody in particular but himself.

"Good speech – if a bit dramatic."

Laurence turned to see Caryll wheeling himself towards him, and braced himself for the ensuing argument.

"Thank you," he said uncertainly. "I expected that you would have much more resistance to my claims. Have I perhaps managed to sway your mind?"

Caryll smiled sombrely. "I'm afraid not, but you have done a fine job bringing around your students. They are frightened, but I don't think there are any who doubt you. Not after that display."

Laurence crossed his arms. "Forgive me, Caryll. I know that recent events have left their mark on you… But I must be certain – what is it about my research which spurns you so?"

"In truth?" Caryll replied, looking out over the empty hall. "It is not your research which concerns me. It's the breadth of your ambition. If this was all just research, then it would impressive. Perhaps the find of the century. But the way you spoke to those students tonight was not in a scholarly sense – I believe you were pitching a business."

Laurence sat down heavily in one of the vacant chairs facing Caryll. When his eyes met with those of his old colleague, they were remorseful, but edged by something powerful. For the lack of a better description, it seemed that his gaze was alight with sparks.

"I believe that Master Willem is right about one thing. We _should_ be fearful of this power. But that does not mean we should not use it. In fact, I believe we'd be tantamount to fools if we hesitated. Where would we be if we hadn't discovered how burning wood could build a flame? Or how flame and oil could produce a spark? If infusions of blood can induce a longer, more fruitful life, then what justification can we have for ignoring it?"

Caryll put a hand on Laurence's shoulder, who tensed slightly at the surprising tenderness of the touch.

"My friend, nobody wants to live forever," he said. "Not really."

Laurence grunted. "Bah. Don't tell me you truly believe that? The goal of humanity has always been singular – self-preservation. This is no different."

"I won't stop you," Caryll said, starting to wheel away now. "But I will never join you. I wish you the best of luck."

Laurence listened to the sound of his chair as it wheeled away, before looking up at the etchings he had made on the blackboard. Phrases like 'EVOLUTION' and 'CURE ALL ILLS' sprang out at him, like promises that he had made. Huge, bombastic promises; nearly impossible to fulfil.

But only nearly.

* * *

"Master Willem, I've come to bid you farewell."

Willem continued to rock in his chair, pace unaffected by the startling sudden appearance of his student, or the resonance of his words.

"Oh. I know, I know," he replied, gentling tapping his cane in his hands. "You think now, to betray me."

"No," Laurence replied, somewhat taken aback by the severity of his master's accusation, but unflinching in his resolve. "But you will never listen. I tell you, I will not forget our adage."

Willem stayed quiet for a moment, just rocking gently. When he spoke again, it was clear he had lost the will to argue with Laurence.

"…We are born of the blood," he began. "…made men by the blood… undone by the blood…"

Laurence began to walk away, unwilling to listen to his master's protestations any longer. But he stopped as Willem spoke one last time.

"Our eyes are yet to open. Fear the Old Blood."

Laurence bit his lip.

" _I will not be able to sway his mind,_ " he thought. " _It is a lost cause."_

Pushing open the door to Willem's study, Laurence took one last look at his former master, and left a final parting remark.

"I must take my leave."

The sound of Laurence's retreating footsteps were like a metronome to the blindfolded Willem. Slowly, he continued to rock back and forth, ruminating on his student's final remarks. With the moonlight as his only companion once again, Willem spoke once more.

"By the Gods, fear it Laurence…"

Slowly... Rocking... Away...

 _The boy is reckless, arrogant, and ambitious beyond the scope of reason. Everything I had hoped he would be…_

 _But he will fail. Such is the fate of the proud._


	4. A Cure For All Ills

**A/N: A new chapter! Majestic!**

 **Chapter Four: A Cure For All Ills**

"I hope you are not having second thoughts about all this."

Gehrman had been staring into empty space, consumed by his own thoughts, and alarm crossed his face when he realised he was being spoken to. Laurence saw the strife in his colleague, and felt a twitch of concern. But Gehrman was as steely as ever.

"I'm just tired, Laurence," he said quietly. "I haven't been sleeping well."

Laurence nodded. "I have scarcely slept myself. It is to be expected, I think, at this transitional stage in our lives."

The sun was bright over the woods surrounding Yharnam's outskirts. Such beautiful days were as rare as stardust in Gehrman's time as a Byrgenwerth scholar, but now, perhaps with such an abundance of the latter to be expected, he could expect more of the former as well. Certainly, it seemed a good omen for his nomadic future.

"I assume Maria will be joining us shortly," Laurence remarked. He seemed strangely energetic for a man carrying years of research on his back, leaving behind the only life he had known for nearly ten years.

"She was hesitant, but I have been able to persuade her," Gehrman replied. "She knows there is nothing further to be gained from this place. Or from Willem."

"And Caryll?" Laurence added, almost as an afterthought.

Gehrman shook his head. "He remains loyal to Willem. As does Rom, strangely enough."

"A shame," Laurence said quietly. "Although his visions were unpredictable, and becoming fewer with every day. We will find better emissaries in time."

"Of course."

Gehrman reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the roll of cloth he had packed inside just a few hours before. Its weight comforted him, and with such encouragement, he replaced it quickly, before he could be questioned by Laurence.

"Tis a fine day for a cosmic expedition!" a cheery, aged voice called. Laurence's face physically fell a few inches at the indication of Archibald's arrival.

As could be expected, Paarl accompanied him, together with a large bundle of research papers, as well as a thin man with brown hair that Gehrman only vaguely recognised.

Laurence noticed the man too, and he crossed his arms in anticipation.

"Micolash, I am surprised to see you here," he said. "I know you have your doubts."

The memory came back to Gehrman like a rush of blood to the head. It was the man from Laurence's address who had spoken out against Rom - and was duly reprimanded for doing so.

Micolash's response was just as frigid was one might expect. "I still do. But you opened my eyes to something that night, sire. I have been unable to drive away visions of greater planes of thought. New ideas come to me in my dreams. I feel that I must chase them - for better or worse."

Laurence clasped Micolash hand in his own and shook it. "I can respect a man with divided ideals. I am but such a man myself. Welcome."

Gehrman looked out over Byrgenwerth's grounds. The expansive, medieval stone building that clung to the side of a vast lake, surrounded by dense green woods. It was like a fairy tale.

"Indeed, I am all the more sorry to go," Gehrman thought.

Master Willem had not turned out to bid them farewell. According to Laurence, he was caught up in his own affairs now - the obsession of blindness and sight. All the more reason for them to leave, it seemed.

Perhaps there was no more learning to be had at Byrgenwerth.

"Gehrman!"

The scholar was whisked away from dreamland as Maria came running down the path, steering two heavy cases on her back.

"Maria, have you enough luggage there?" Laurence asked, smirking.

Maria ignored his jab. "All of my research papers, my laboratory equipment, my robes-"

"Seems the only thing you left behind are your sunflowers," Gehrman laughed.

Maria smiled. "Perhaps their light might chase away the gloom in that place. Come now, let us leave."

"Aye," Gehrman chimed in. "We have a large distance to cover to reach Yharnam before sundown."

Laurence took one last look at Byrgenwerth's lofty towers. He saw the window to Willem's study, and the faint outline of a seated figure looking out.

But then he looked away. Away from what he knew, and towards what he didn't.

"Onwards," he said. "To the next world."

(-)

The 'next world' was not quite as anyone had expected.

"Is this it?" Gehrman asked. "Our home?"

The rustic shack of a house that stood before them seemed hardly fitting as a base of operations for heralds of a new age. With its wicked and spiteful architecture - towering metal windows, winding stone steps - it seemed more like a child's nightmare than anything regal.

"We have very little coin between us," Laurence explained. "And this building has been cheap on the market since... well..."

"Since its previous owners were all brutally mutilated and buried in the garden?" Maria offered.

Laurence grit his teeth. "Not quite. There was a scandal involving two politicians and a... how do I say... lady of the night..."

"So, not a murder house?" Gehrman asked, smiling nervously.

"No," Laurence replied. "But that doesn't mean that it has a clean reputation. It'll have to do."

A vortex of dust swept through the double doors of the house as Laurence slowly edged them open. An old smell wafted into the group's nostrils - the scent of rot, decay; unpleasantries.

"Are you sure this isn't a murder house?" Maria asked, nervously eying every darkened corner in the house's main hallway.

"Absolutely," Laurence affirmed. "Soon it will be the home of the most respected organisation in Yharnam!"

Gehrman shared a quizzical look with Maria, before directing it straight at Laurence. "And what would that be?"

Laurence looked back at Gehrman with a twinkle in his eye.

"The Healing Church!"

(-)

\- One Year Later -

There was a loud knock on Laurence's door. The vicar, somewhat startled, dropped a stack of research papers, which then flew through the air like autumnal leaves in a draft of wind.

"Come in!"

The man who entered instantly gained Laurence's dislike. He wore a tight blue jacket buttoned together with steel fasteners, with long, black trousers. Almost immediately, Laurence knew him to be a constable of one of the surrounding towns, but held his tongue so as to appear less fearful than he already did.

The constable cast a fleeting look at the descending papers for which he was responsible, before striding up to Laurence's desk and laying his hands on the table.

"Vicar Laurence?" he asked, waiting for Laurence to nod before pressing on. "I'm sergeant Clifford - a member of Valtr's constabulary over in Whiteroth. I need to confront you about something... very peculiar."

Laurence's hackles rose at the drop of words such as 'Confront' and 'Peculiar', but still he kept his composure, and simply responded. "Go on."

Clifford held up a large brown sack and started rummaging inside. "My men and I were following up on a strange lead. One of the local farmers reported half his sheep herd gone missing in the night. Most peculiar. And some of the other villagers became convinced that they could hear snarling and howling - like some big dog - at night outside of their houses."

Laurence snorted, completely indignant. "I hardly see how you can relate any of this to the work we do in the Healing Church..."

Clifford's hand stopped moving inside the sack. He looked up at Laurence, a grave expression on his face.

"This... this 'thing' killed three of my men before we were able to put it down. Turns out, whatever this thing was, it had started out as a human being. Saint... Trolius...? I suppose you are familiar with the name?"

Laurence twitched slightly in his seat. "Of course. Trolius was my representative for the church in the eastern villages. Are you actually trying to convince me that this man transformed into a beas-"

Clifford withdrew his hand from the sack, and slammed the contents down hard on Laurence's desk. The vicar froze, paralysed at the very sight.

"But... but that's real... it can't be..."

But it was. The fresh blood dripping from beneath was simply too authentic to be replicated by any fabrication.

"I want you to explain this to me," Clifford said, voice cold and dark now. "A man consumed by his passion for blood... A man of your faith... Turned into a monster."

(-)

\- 2000ft Beneath the Ground -

Gehrman had to pause for a moment to wipe his brow. The ruins of Ailing Loran were not cold, damp or earthy like one would expect of a maze of catacombs. The air was muggy, a hot breeze wafting through the caves at all times. Each breath was a vexing effort, a battle between his lungs and the humidity of the air.

As he started to walk again, he crossed straight through a tangle of tropic vines, and after a brief struggle, quickly became entangled within them.

Maria let out a chuckle which he half-heartedly attempted to hide with her hand. Her joy only seemed to infuriate Gehrman more.

"Blasted things!" he snarled, wriggling frantically.

"I don't think your cut out to be an explorer, my friend," Maria laughed, crossing the way to free her companion.

"No need," Gehrman said, as he drew out a long, scythe-like blade from a sheathe upon his back and freed himself with a spinning slash. Maria watched the severed vines drop to the floor, and the twinkle of the blade's metal edge as it briefly caught the light of the cave.

Instinctively, she folded her arms.

"Siderite," she said, almost accusing. "That blade is made of siderite. I've seen enough of the stuff to know it anywhere."

Gehrman smiled in the half-light of the cavern, replacing the blade on his back. "I figured that it would pay to come prepared after... the last expedition."

Maria shut her eyes quickly as images of Laurence's mangled, bloodied body rushed back to her. Only pressing her fingers hard to her temples was enough to blot them out again.

"Indeed," she said quietly.

Gehrman looked at her for a while, saying nothing. Finally, he spoke, in a soft, almost unnatural voice.

"Maria, maybe you shouldn't have come. For your own good."

Maria shook her head wildly. "No, I'm fine. I could say the sane of you... But here you are. I won't let you down."

"Who cares if you let me down?" Gehrman offered, putting his hand gently on her arm. "This isn't about me. I've had my share of nightmares. As have you. But I'm not afraid to relive them. Are you?"

"No," Maria replied, a little too quickly. She did not make any attempt to shake Gehrman's arm.

"Maria," Gehrman said quietly. "I'm only saying these things because I care about you. If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself."

Maria shook her head, almost disgusted with the idea of Gehrman as a fatherly influence. "I don't need to be protected from anything. This is my life, and I can look after myself. But, thank you."

Gehrman's arm dropped limply to his side. Maria lifted her torch, casting its luminous gaze down the cavern.

"What's that?" she whispered, eyes narrowing feet and already closing the distance towards it.

Gehrman peered out. "What?"

"Those markings on the wall," Maria replied, continuing to inch forward. "They look like... They were scrawled in a hurry."

The scholar gasped as she drew in close, shining her lantern across the stone face.

"Oh my... Gehrman, you must see this for yourself!"

The prospector ran forwards, only slightly careful not to trip on his own feet. The closer he got to the stone wall, the more he saw of the gigantic message that was scrawled across its surface, and the deeper the unease that had sunk into his gut grew.

 **"TURN BACK. BAD BLOOD."**

Gehrman read the enormous message aloud, noting the way each letter was scrawled - sideways and untidily - and the blood-red colour of the dye that had inked them.

"What does it mean?" he asked, looking to Maria for her two cents. However, it seemed her attention was elsewhere, her gaze following a trail of discarded and broken vials that led around the corner. Crusted, hard-dried red filled some of them, whilst also lining the floors and walls nearby.

"We don't have to keep going," Gehrman pressed. "No amount of wealth can make this worthwhile."

Maria stooped down and picked up one of the fallen vials. She raised the bloodied rim to her nostrils. Immediately, she recoiled, throwing the glass against a wall.

As the broken shards rained down onto the ground, Gehrman crossed the cave to reach her, taking her firmly by the shoulder.

"Come on, let's just go!" he cried, tugging harder than he really should have.

Maria shook him off, turning to face him with a glare more fierce than a cobra's.

"And what will we tell them?" she snapped. "That we ran away because of a scary message on the wall?"

"We don't have to tell them anything!" Gehrman insisted. "Say we found nothing!"

"I won't lie," Maria retorted. "You can go back. But I have to see this for myself."

The trail of bloodied vials led for at least half a mile. The further that the pair walked, the stronger the musky scent in the air grew, to the point that Gehrman could no longer bare to breath for his nose. Quickly, he took a rolled handkerchief and pressed it to his nose.

'Morgues smell less pungently of blood than this tunnel,' Gehrman thought, his eyes watering at the corners.

Eventually, the tunnel opened out into a much larger cavern. From the appearance of the room, filled with tall wooden shelves and cupboards lined with multicoloured jars and tubes, it was something of an apothecary. The sheer volume of medicinal product that was in the room - overturned, empty or otherwise - was alarming, and most likely would have prompted discussion from Maria.

That is, if her attention was not focused solely on the sight at the centre of the cavern.

Lying on the stone floor, surrounded by blue and red vials and darkened stains, was a monster.

(-)

Laurence reached out, tentatively, to prod the creature's head. It's glassy, empty eyes seemed to bore into him as he watched it, fearful of the slightest movement. The curved fangs that protruded from its mouth were stained in blood that was clearly not its own.

"I've never seen a wolf so big," Laurence whispered. It was a feeble remark, and he instantly resented it, but he had so few words left that it was all that came out.

"This is not a wolf," Clifford said, folding his hands out on the table. "This is Saint Trolius. Or what is left of him."

"How do you expect me to believe that?" Laurence retorted. "What evidence have you of any of this?"

"The monster broke through the back of Trolius' house," Clifford replied. "And it was wearing tatters of his clothes. He had been struck down by illness. Nobody had seen him for weeks. But you know how he was, Laurence. The man was a wreck, drinking himself to death between services. Townsfolk had assumed he was dead by his own hand - drowned by the bottle. But it was not to be."

Laurence felt cold. But not like any cold he had ever experienced before. It was his insides, not outsides, that seemed to freeze, a frigid flush starting in his stomach and spreading outwards like the roots of a plant. He barely managed a response. "I still... don't see how this relates to me... Or the Church..."

"Well, the Constabulary have never exactly been fans of your mystical blood treatment, Vicar..." Clifford said. "In my mind, what you've brought out is a terrible thing for the world. A substance more addictive and controlling than opium or alcohol... Except, this IS something new. All your talk about Great Ones and the ascension of humanity... You're a cult, a group of fanatics- and you've stumbled across a contaminant... Your 'Cure for All Ills... Something dangerous that should never have been distributed to the public."

"I'm hearing a lot of spite, but not a lot of evidence," Laurence shot back.

"Trolius was addicted to your 'blood'," Clifford replied. "He was a pitiful sight. Knocking back vial after vial, even injecting himself... Seems to me that his addiction triggered a reaction. I'm no doctor, or researcher, but I've seen what opium can do to your mind... Is it so out of all possibility that your magic blood did this to him?"

Laurence shook his head limply. "No, not possible. We ensured the safety of taking the blood. Treatment with quicksilver means that transfusion is as simple as taking a sip of water!"

Clifford sat back in his chair. His expression was dark.

"I have a warrant for your arrest, Vicar. And the Constabulary is prepared to conduct a full investigation into your... 'church.'"

"I'm afraid I won't be coming with you, Constable," Laurence said quietly, head bowed.

"You have no choice," Clifford asserted, pulling out a revolver and pointing it straight at Laurence's forehead.

Laurence looked up as he heard the clink of the firearm. There was no panic in his eyes, however. All of the nerves that had plagued him were gone now, replaced by a cooly demeanour that could've been mistaken for resignation.

"Kill him," he whispered.

Clifford's eyebrows shot up as he realised, spinning around just in time to see the cloaked figure behind him before they had plunged their enormous blade straight through him. The constable spluttered great volumes of blood, but it was over very quickly. The life left his body faster than a bullet leaving a chamber as the body of the greatsword glimmered with a faint green hue, before the whole blade was withdrawn with great force.

Laurence uncorked a bottle of red wine and started to pour into two glasses. He looked up briefly as Clifford's body clattered to the ground, and as droplets of his blood were sent soaring across his office.

"Thank you, Ludwig," he said quietly, as the figure stooped low to the ground, and gently shut Clifford's open and lifeless eyes.

"Of course, Master Laurence," they replied.

"Will you have a drink with me?"

Ludwig lowered his hood and smiled at Laurence, his wavy hair spattered with streaks of red.

"It would be a pleasure."

(-)

Maria went quite still, her breath catching in her throat. The torch in her hand fell to the cavern floor, sizzling out with a wet thud as it hit the sodden cavern floor.

Gehrman was beside her in an instant, his siderite-borne blade at his side.

The beast that lay on the floor was unlike anything either prospector had ever seen. It was humanoid - which immediately put Gehrman at great unease - but cloaked with a shaggy silver mane. It's face was a contortion; a mockery of human form? yet still recognisable as such. Nouns like 'Yeti' and 'Ghoul' leapt out at Gehrman as he laid his gaze on the creature's ape-like head.

It was also dead. Long dead. Not that the pair could have known this in that instant. Next to Ebrietas, this was the closest thing they had seen that bordered on inexplicable. Except that the cluttered mess of a grave that the creature inhabited told an unpleasant, yet believable story.

"Is this the price of dabbling with the old blood?" Maria whispered, summarising Gehrman's own thoughts. "Is this what felled Loran?"

Gehrman never had the chance to answer, for it was at that moment that a deep, feral roar exploded through the cavern. Maria, jolted as though zapped by a current, leapt against the back wall as another silver beast, this one very much alive, bounded into the room, arboreal claws unfurling at the sight of a new prey.

"Get behind me, Maria!" Gehrman shouted, trying to attract the gaze of the beast before it could fall on his companion.

The beast rose onto its hind legs, all but realising Gehrman's fears about its origin. Snarling with a register that sounded eerily like that of a cat, it started to cross the room.

Maria started to edge along the back wall, but a misplaced foot drew the creature's gaze, and it started to lunge at her. Gehrman was faster though, and was able to take a sidelong swipe at the beast just before it made its impact.

The siderite blade parted the beast's flesh like paper, and a stream of blackened guts spilled out from the wound as it started to bleed profusely onto the ground. The beast let out one last hiss before falling flat onto its back.

Gehrman returned his gaze to his companion, only to find her own occupied by a sight over his shoulder. Alarmed, she let out a cry. "Over there!"

A low growl from behind sent shivers all the way down Gehrman's spine. It was swiftly accompanied by another. And another.

Three silver beasts now stood between the duo and freedom, their malformed shadows cast long across the cavern's dimly-lit floor. As Gehrman readied his blade again, the first two charged forwards, claws extended.

Gehrman lashed out at his attackers, but was knocked aside before he could even register the effect of his blow. Slamming hard against the wall, siderite blade slipping from his hand, the prospector saw stars, the world around him spinning like a kaleidoscope.

Maria could only gasp as her companion was thrown across the cavern like a ragdoll. The silver beast responsible had taken a deep cut across its eyes, and promptly fell onto the ground, but its companion grabbed her forcefully with two misshapen claws and dragged her off of her feet.

As she squirmed, the creature drew her in close, jaws prying open with a hiss to reveal a combine harvester of curved fangs, eager to tear her to ribbons.

Gehrman stumbled to his feet, seeing the third silver beast drawing close to him, and knelt for his blade. His movements were sluggish, limbs like rubber. It was not like before. When he had fought Ebrietas. There was no will to fight. No primal instincts kicking in to energise him. As the silver beast grabbed him by the throat with its claw, sinking its maw into his shoulder, he barely registered the pain, his body seemingly numbed and resigned to its fate.

The world darkened.

But then there was the blood. Gehrman opened his eyes, vision flooding back to him like a flash of lightning, and he was covered in it.

His breaths were like spasms, coming unnaturally fast and with very little input from his lungs.

He was standing upright. The agony that had seared his left side and triggered his blackout, was gone. Every beast in the room lay dead, hacked to pieces by his blade - some so viciously they appeared to have been blown apart by explosives. Maria sat in the corner, her eyes wide like saucers, fixed on Gehrman. She was quivering like a leaf, but was visibly unharmed.

"Did... did I do this?" Gehrman spluttered, gazing about himself at the massacre that had unfolded.

Maria did not reply. Her gaze was fixed on something else now. The empty vial that lay at Gehrman's feet, crushed as he had landed on top of it in the scuffle.

Shaking hard and unable to process what had just happened, Gehrman let his blade fall to the ground with a crash. He soon followed suit, his legs giving out beneath him.

"What... have I become...?" he whispered, raising his bloodstained hands to cup his face.

(-)

Rom opened his eyes.

It was evening now. The moon illuminated his bed covers through the open window. He must have drifted off.

He climbed out from under his covers quickly, throwing on a gown like his very life depended on it. Flinging open his bedroom door, he sailed through the hallway, past a bewildered scholar in a nightcap, and straight into Willem's quarters.

As expected, Byrgenwerth's master was not asleep, and was sat rocking in his chair as usual. He looked up as Rom burst into the room, apparently having been drawn out of a deep meditation.

"Master Willem!" the flustered scholar cried. "I must speak with you at once!"


	5. The Praise

**Chapter Five: The Praise**

"How fascinating!"

Paarl set his eyes upon the large, ovular vial of which Archibald was referring. It did not immediately strike him as a very interesting specimen, although the deep black liquid that lay dormant inside of it was enough to raise an eyebrow.

"What is this, Dr. Archibald?" he asked, mildly concerned that the answer might not be something he truly wanted to hear.

The Healing Church's head researcher turned to his laboratory assistant and smiled broadly, teeth and all, with a frightful glee that immediately put Paarl on edge.

"Blood, my boy. And not just any blood, either. This blood has mutated. Horrifically so. And I've been tasked with finding out why."

Paarl took another look at the viscous, oil-like fluid in the vial. "That's blood? Human blood?"

Archibald laughed. "Once, maybe. But not anymore."

"May I ask where you got it from?"

"You may," Archibald replied, casually pointing Paarl at a table in the far corner of the room. "But don't look if you're going to get sick on my laboratory floor."

The lab assistant had crossed the room to the table and was staring, dumfoundedly, at the sight that lay before him. He had to clasp his hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. "God… That's… real, isn't it?"

Archibald snorted. "I surely hope so. I wouldn't want to believe that I have been wasting two days of my life studying it for naught."

Paarl felt a vile, acidic dread rising to his mouth, and swallowed it quickly, turning back to face his superior.

"And? Have you found anything?"

Archibald tentatively tapped the vial with the edge of an empty syringe, smiling giddily, as though a child prodding a curiosity at a marketplace.

"You can't rush progress, my boy. But I can assure you, we are in for an extraordinary workload."

Paarl sagged, trying hard to resist the temptation to gaze back at the obscenity that lay on the lab table.

"Oh... good."

* * *

Willem leant forward in his chair, and Rom heard the front hinges audibly creak under the brunt of his weight. The expression on the college master's face told him everything he needed to know about Willem's reaction to the story he had just breathlessly related.

"This could be the discovery of a lifetime," Willem cried. "And just the sort of thing that could put us ahead of Laurence and his… establishment."

Rom heard the distaste in his master's voice, but did not question it. The widespread appeal of Laurence's sect and subsequent overshadowing of his Byrgenwerth origins and the work of his old colleagues was a pain that all students of Willem's felt. It was not a sentiment that needed to be voiced.

"How soon do you think you can put together a party and research this?" Willem asked excitedly.

Rom gave it some thought. "Perhaps by nightfall tomorrow. We will require provisions, equipment. The horses will need to be prepped-"

"Consider it done," Willem cut in. "You have my permission to use Byrgenwerth's resources to whatever end you may require… However few and far between they may be…"

Rom nodded. "Thank you, master. I believe we shall all reap the rewards soon enough."

* * *

Gehrman flinched as he put his foot down hard in a puddle. The muddy rainwater spattered his jacket and overalls, and he swore at the freezing touch.

The rainfall had been hard this past week – near torrential in the early hours - but at 3 a.m. in the morning, when one's consciousness is fragile and unbraced, meteorology is not at the forefront of the sleep-addled mind. Certainly, Gehrman had not dressed for the occasion. He had not bothered to throw on anything but a pair of boots, and was still dressed head-to-toe in his gown. This oversight, he too attributed to the time of night – and to his own poor state of mind.

" _What am I doing out here?_ " he wondered. " _It's clear that the fresh air has done me no good. I'd have been better to stay under my covers. Sleep or no sleep."_

Central Yharnam was hardly one of the prettier districts of the city, either. Even at night the putrid green running down the walls and across the pavement was visible. The pale, lifeless blades of grass whooshed in the night breeze but did little to brighten up the night, and the fetid stench of cheap gin and blood smothered the air.

 _"_ _I'm going to turn back,_ " Gehrman decided.

However, it didn't take him long to realise that he didn't know exactly which way 'back' was. The darkened streets entwined, looping back and forth around each other like a labyrinth, and the only light to be seen for miles came from the streetlamps that dotted every other corner.

In light, and with an unburdened mind, navigation would have been easy enough. But under such circumstances as these they were all-but impossible.

"Fuck," Gehrman muttered, sinking his hands deep in his pockets and leaning back against the nearest wall.

At the very least, the silence was tranquil. There was nothing to fear out here – not since the gifts made by Healing Church had single-handedly decimated the city's crime rates. When the sun rose he would find his way back home.

Easy enough.

But as his thoughts started to melt away and his eyes began to droop, a quiet clinking from just around the corner shook him to attention.

Immediately, Gehrman felt his nerves start to grate. The thought of encountering another human being out in the dark like this brought out the cold sweats in him, and he was nearly ready to turn and run.

But when the source of the commotion – a figure dressed in a long black garb and tattered hat – stumbled past Gehrman, bottle of brandy in hand, such fears were allayed. It was just a friendly neighbour drunk.

Not a silver-maned monster that wanted to tear off his head.

The man stopped his ambling, seeming to sense Gehrman's presence. He turned his head, and Gehrman saw his face. His eyes were brown, and seemed somewhat at odds with the rest of his features, which were greyed and faded, much like the clothes that he was wearing. Despite this, he had kind features – laugh lines ran down from the corner of his eyes and mouth, and as his eyes met with Gehrman's he smiled briefly.

"Huh, I thought I was the only one who walked these streets at night," he said, voice grizzled and weary. Gehrman estimated him to be at least fifty, based on this alone.

The man took a swig from his bottle, before tossing it away. "I didn't think anyone else could stand the stench. This city is squalor. If my wife hadn't got family here, I'd never have agreed to move."

"It has its charms, I suppose," Gehrman mumbled. He was hardly feeling in the mood for small talk with a stranger – a drunk one at that – but at least it was a distraction.

The man chuckled drily. "You sound just like her, actually. Always trying to find the bright side. Honestly, can you give me one legitimate reason to like this place?"

"What about the Healing Church?" Gehrman replied. "Have you seen the work they've done here?"

"Oh, you're one of them…." The man sighed. His tone had shifted noticeably, and almost seemed despairing now. "Geez. I thought that the folks back home had a problem. Y'know, with tobacco? But this city takes the biscuit. I don't care what they tell you, nothing that's any good for you comes in a bottle."

"Says you," Gehrman retorted.

The man gazed at the broken shards of glass against the wall and shrugged. "What doesn't kill you… But this isn't me. It's my daughter. My eldest. She's been waltzing off with this… character. Typically, she won't tell her old man thing about him. But I'm a good father. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I look out for her. So… I followed this guy for a time. Found out that he's a vicar for your damn Healing Church!"

Gehrman stayed quiet. The man let out a throaty cough, and continued.

"But it ain't end there. Guy's a lunatic. Downs blood like brandy. He's been beating my girl. Trying to turn her into one of them… But I won't have that. I won't."

The man drew back his coat, and Gehrman saw a pistol tucked into his belt. Once he was sure Gehrman had seen it, the man tugged his coat back across, almost guiltily.

"This is his house," the man declared, pointing at a ramshackle cottage next to the Old Brewery.

Gehrman felt a chill run right through his body. It wasn't like he was committing a crime by hearing about it, and yet, by affiliation, he now felt responsible for it.

"Why not tell the constabulary?" Gehrman found himself asking. "Get them to deal with it?"

The man rounded on Gehrman, fists bunched. "Do you really think they'd listen to a 'destitute alien' like me? A social deviant? They'd never. No, the only justice in this city is that which we take with our own hands!"

Gehrman watched as the man's shoulders heaved angrily. For a second, it seemed like he had lost control, so succumbed to his anger as he appeared to be. His hot breath stank like a gutter, but Gehrman tried not to display his repulsion, for fear of retaliation by firearm.

The man drew out his gun and studied it, a glimmer of reverence in his eyes.

"Don't worry, I ain't gonna kill you," he said. "Like I said, I'm just being a good father. Nobody hurts one of my girls."

His prior demeanour seemingly sobered by his resolve, the man began to stride towards the cottage, gun in hand. Gehrman froze, caught by indecision.

" _This has nothing to do with me_ ," he assured himself. " _Don't get involved. Don't be foolish._ "

And yet, the whole encounter had left him feeling something. Something primal.

Fury. Anger like nothing he had ever experienced before in his life; it was swelling up inside of him like a balloon.

" _This man, this NOBODY… Drew a gun and threatened me_!"

He was pursuing the man before he could even register the blood rush to his legs. His siderite blade, once concealed in a sheath upon his back, was now in his hand.

The man was just ahead of him. It would be over in a matter of seconds. He wouldn't even see it coming.

Gehrman's hand tightened on the blade, his knuckles whitening. It was comforting to the touch, even though it was still stained with the blood of the silverbeasts.

He raised the blade, just inches behind the man's neck.

But then he heard something that made him stop. The man stopped walking too. The whole world seemed to stop, nothing existing but a single, solitary sound.

A howl.

* * *

A thick white fog had rolled in. Visibility was at an extreme low, even for Yharnam and its borders, and the horses slowed to a glacial pace, perhaps more spooked than their owners.

Rom, who rode at the head of the party, had come prepared for the occasion. It was not unheard of to see great mists near the coastline – especially at this time of year. As his company slowed to a near-halt in his wake, he felt inside his bag for his oil lantern.

The party had been crossing the marshlands for hours now, and it showed. Spirits were lower than the temperature of the air, and all of the hot water pouches had cooled. Despite wearing winter coats, it was impossible to beat back the cold. The fog was literally just the icing on the cake for a thoroughly-fed up company.

By the light of the lantern, the group was able to roll into Yearnsmouth by evening. From there, it was only a short trek to their destination. Depending on whether the group got an early rise – which seemed painfully unlikely – they could be there by late morning.

The Morning Sun, the local inn was nearly empty, which struck Rom as strange for Yearnsmouth. Although the season meant that tourism was at a low, there was still a considerable local population.

Few of which could be accounted for.

The innkeeper's face lit up as soon as he laid eyes on Rom and his party. Immediately, he pulled them each a pint.

"I was starting to think that the whole town had just got up and left," he chuckled. "First round's on me, gentlemen."

A cheer bustled through the crowd. With a warm hearth and a tankard of ale now at their leisure, it seemed group spirits had revived quickly. The only other customer in the inn, a middle-aged, bearded rogue-type who had been sat on a barstool near the front with a tall glass of bitter, had gotten up quickly as Rom's party had entered, and was now sitting in an armchair next to the fireplace. As his men drank, Rom left his stool and sat opposite the man in front of the flames.

Before Rom could even open his mouth, the man had shut it for him. "I don't want to talk, boy," he grumbled, looking away from the Byrgenwerth scholar with something akin to disgust.

"I was just hoping to find some answers," Rom replied, taken aback by the man's rudeness.

"Well, you won't get any here," the man snapped. "The lot of you are better off packing your bags and going back to wherever ya came from."

"We've travelled too far for that," Rom shot back. "Listen, I don't want any trouble. We're just passing through."

The man grunted, readjusting his body in the chair. "I know where you're going. If you had any sense, you'd turn back. It's a bad place."

Rom raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Since when?"

The man was silent for a few moments, and Rom saw the slightest flicker of fear in the man's eyes before it sunk below the surface once more.

"Since last month. I'm telling you, turn back. No good can come from this. You're putting your men in grave danger."

The chill of the night air seemed to be sweeping in from somewhere. Rom sat forward in his chair, trying to edge closer to the warmth of the hearthstone. "How's that, then? If you tell me what's happening, I'll get right out of your way, I swear."

The man sighed. "I used to hail from down there. Went out on the boats with my brother and my son. But… Oh god…then came those filthy things..."

Rom blinked, his thoughts immediately turning to cosmic matters. "What things? What do you mean?"

The man took a long sip from his drink. Rom was surprised to see his hand was shaking, and the black hairs along his arm standing on edge.

"I've said too much already, I wasn't supposed to get involved," the man returned, standing up hurriedly and putting on a raincoat.

"Wait, don't go!" Rom got up and followed him to the door, but the man slammed it behind him, disappearing into the rain. When Rom came outside, there was nobody in sight.

After a few moments, the innkeeper barked at Rom. "Shut that door, would yer? It's bloody freezing!"

Rom rejoined his group at the bar, but his mind was no longer rooted in one place. His thoughts, like a horrid frenzy, would not stop wriggling about.

"Don't mind him, he's been a regular here since his family chucked him out," the innkeeper chuckled. "Poor chap. But, if I were him, I wouldn't be so upset. There's something about that hamlet that gives me the shivers…"

Rom nodded silently, picking up his glass again.

Most of the party slept well that night.

* * *

Gehrman had stopped dead in his tracks. The man had stopped too, head craning about wildly, searching for the source of the blood-curdling sound.

It didn't take him long to find it.

Crawling towards the pair from the shadows across the other side of the street, was an enormous, quadrupedal creature. At first, all that was visible of its monstrous form was the vague outline of a great, black wolf, and a pair of luminous, empty yellow eyes. However, as the creature slowly crept from the darkness into the light, watching the pair closely like a hunter observing its prey, more of its features became visible.

Enormous, curved fangs protruded from its contorted jaws. Its body was covered entirely in deep, shaggy black fur. At the end of each of its four, muscular legs were beastly claws, not unlike that of a dog, but horribly malformed and much, much larger.

It was clear, however, that in spite of the creature's looks, this was no animal.

At least, not a naturally-occurring one.

Its limbs were far too long and gangly to have been the product of natural selection; its body too contorted and rough to have been born from a mother.

All of these factors, and then the observation that there were remnants of torn clothing wrapped around the creature's hind legs.

"Stay back," Gehrman barked, lowering his blade from the man's neck to his side. In spite of the frigid cold of his blood and the paralysing stiffness of his body, there was something approaching steely resolve in Gehrman's bones. Perhaps he had finally reached the point where fighting off inhuman creatures from the pits of hell was just a normal daily occurrence.

"Not bloody likely," the man retorted, aiming his pistol at the creature and waving it frantically. "Come on then, Fido! Let's 'ave ya then!"

The beast continued to skirt against the edge of the opposite street wall, edging closer to the pair but taking time to size them up. For the briefest of seconds, Gehrman's eyes met with the creature's yellow headlamps, and there was a flicker of hunger exchanged between both parties.

And then, the man fired his gun, and the world was set alight.

Gehrman's vision was a blaze of red, yellow, and black. He saw the creature recoil as the bullet glanced its flesh, then leap forward at the pair. Then he saw splashes of crimson that splattered against the wall and his coat.

At one point, there was an acute agony in his arm, and he could vaguely recall the sight of the beast's jaws locked around his elbow, but it was quickly replaced with dizzy adrenaline.

Eventually, the world returned to normal. Gehrman came to with his blade stuck halfway down the beast's throat, blood pouring down every conceivable part of his body. It was in his hair, down the back of his collar and in his eyes.

The stench was indescribably terrible, and yet, there was something invigorating about it.

Gehrman slid his blade out of the creature, which slumped onto the ground lifelessly. Its piercing yellow peepers had gone dim, its gnashing jaws flopping against the cobblestones. After, he just stood there, panting, and feeling the dull weight of the blood on his clothes, that seemed closer and closer every passing second to seeping through to his skin.

Then, the man with the pistol spoke, which nearly shook Gehrman silly.

"Yer all right?"

The Church Scholar started to chuckle. "I had quite forgotten you were even there…"

The man returned the smile, but it quickly faded. "What the heck is wrong with this damn town?" he grumbled. "Can't even go for a midnight stroll without being set upon by someone's oversized puppy!"

Gehrman gave the man a disparaging glare. "A puppy?"

"I'm kidding of course," the man replied. "D'yer see now what this place has devolved into? What that damn Church has done?"

"What has you so convinced that the Church did this?" Gehrman shot back. The bloodlust had not quite dissipated, and he felt himself slowly losing his conviction, hand already reaching for his blade once more.

However, his fingers stopped twitching immediately, as the man pointed at the cottage he had previously been trying to break into – the house belonging to a church vicar. In particular, at the front window - which had, from the looks of it, literally exploded from the inside.

"Yer all right, stranger," the man continued. "It helps to have a friend in crazy times. The name's Henryk. I'll be seeing ya, I think."

He started to walk, but stopped suddenly, looking back.

"Don't believe everything they tell ya. Praise never helped anyone. Ya got to watch out for these church types. They're rotten to the core."

Gehrman waited until the man was out of sight, before slowly sinking to the ground, and tried very hard to wake up from whatever nightmare he was having.

* * *

Several hours after Gehrman had dispatched the shapeshifting beast, Rom's party arrived at the fishing hamlet. The party was in higher spirits than the previous day – most likely because of the ale that slept happily and warmly in their bellies. Even the weather seemed improved, the fog replaced with the clear white sky, and the cold, if not dispelled, was certainly weakened.

The first member of the town to greet them was the putrefying stench of fish, some half a mile out from the first row of buildings, which was hardly a surprise, considering the location of the village and its purpose. Several of the men started to bellow and jeer, and the merriness of the inn came rushing back throughout the party. However, the jollying did little to alleviate the heaviness that Rom was feeling throughout his body, ever since he had woken up.

There was something about the warnings that he had been given that made him want to turn tail and run. Such sensations were only strengthened as the group finally reached the outskirts of town, and were greeted by the skeletal remains of several marine animals. Most were tiny, coming from haddock, bass and other small fish, but some of them were much larger. Ominously so, in fact.

Rom could not recall having ever seen such large fish in his life.

As they approached the first set of housing – rickety, wood-built shacks covered in rope and algae – a greying, fifty-so man in a bright blue coat and black trousers stood up from his stool, dropped the fish that he had been gutting, and started to walk towards the oncoming party. Rom saw his blood-stained hands and immediately wanted to put as much distance between himself and the man as possible.

"You folks lost?" the man called out, voice rougher than the waves that he clearly sailed upon regularly.

"No," Rom replied, studying himself, and hoping he sounded braver than he felt. "We're here to see Kos."

The man pocketed the bloodied fillet knife he had been using and produced a tobacco pipe, lighting and propping it in his mouth without saying a word. He barely seemed to react to Rom, and it was several moments before he spoke again.

"I don't know what that is, but you sure have come a long way for nothing. Why don't ya just turn around?"

"Is that a threat?" Rom responded. He could literally feel the tension in the air; it was nearly tangible enough to be seized.

The man blew out a ring of smoke, and pointed to the ground. "Are these fish bones at my feet?"

Rom balled his fist and stepped forward. "We are under authority from the district of Yharnam to carry out our research here. I suggest you step aside, unless you wish to face prosecution."

The man let out a hacking cough. "Now look's who's doing the threatening!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Rom could see several men crouched behind the wooden shacks. Instinctively, he reached for the blunderbuss he had concealed in his trenchcoat.

"I'm warning you," Rom growled. "This is a fishing village. Not a munitions workshop. You stand no chance against an armed patrol. Stand down now. Tell your men to back out of the way, and we can be done with our business as soon as possible."

The man did not respond. He barely seemed phased by the possibility of a violent response.

"We don't need guns, boy," he retorted. "We have the praise of Mother Kos."

Before anyone in the group could react, one of the crouched men tossed a large projectile at the group. Upon impact with the ground, the object, which was made of glass and filled to the brim with an unknown liquid, exploded violently, and flames were sent pirouetting in all directions.

Most men in the proximity of the blast radius were incinerated and killed instantly, but the others were set alight, and their screams of agony wrenched at Rom's ears. In the chaos, the Byrgenwerth scholar fell flat onto the wet ground, the embers scattered across his coat fizzling out, but a searing pain across his back indicating that he hardly gotten away unscathed.

The pain was raw and unrestrained; Rom barely heard the dying of his men. It was over in about five minutes, which he only realised when he was hoisted to his feet by an enormous, hulking sailor, and he saw the charred bodies lying all about him.

"Well, our Mother has chosen you to live," the original sailor declared, glowering at Rom as the struggling scholar was forced around to look at him. At such close range, Rom could see the man properly, and he was horrified at the sight of what appeared to be gills upon the man's exposed neck, just below his collar.

As he looked about him, still trying to kick out and be freed from the enormous man's grip, he saw similar markings on the other sailor's skin. Some also seemed to have the faint beginnings of scales upon their bare arms. The numerous eyes that were lain upon him were all green, an icy coldness in them that rivalled the sea itself.

Rom started to splutter, bile dripping from the corner of his mouth. His gaze fell, unable to look at the deformed fishermen any longer. He was only able to muster a weak response of "What are you…", and all it evoked was cruel laughter from the assembled freak show.

"We are blessed by the Mother Kos," the first sailor responded. "She has given us so many gifts. Lifted us above what we were. Now, you too will meet her discerning eye. She will show you your worth too. It is her will."

"You… people… are monsters…" Rom whispered. He was not granted a response, as he was hefted onto the shoulder of the brutish sailor, and his face pressed against the hard bone.

He was carried for a long time, but there was only darkness. He heard many terrifying sounds along the way. Mostly there was demonic chanting, which sounded as though it were being said by every single person in the town, judging by its volume. Occasionally, he also heard strange and disgusting noises, like slithering and slurping, which he decided he was better off not seeing.

When he was finally released from the grasp of the monstrous sailor, he was thrown onto a large patch of cold, wet soil. Upon lifting his face from the ground, he quickly realised that it was actually sand. He was on a beach looking onto the coast, and the endless, boundless seas.

As soon as he was able he tried to get to his feet and run, but before the strength came he was quickly and brutally cut off, as a huge, rusted anchor was repeatedly slammed onto his legs by the hulking sailor that had previously carried him. There was no pain, which would've seemed strange on any other day, but not after everything he had already seen and witnessed.

There was light.

Across the beach, near to where the tide was currently drifting inward, was the brightest light that Rom had ever seen in his life.

He started to walk towards it.

 _"Oh yes…He will see…"_

Closer now. And closer.

 _"As we have seen…"_

Nearly there.

 _"Grant us eyes, Mother Kos."_

So close.

 _"Grant us eyes…"_


	6. Midnight

**Chapter Six: Midnight**

The pain in Laurence's chest had flared up again.

Awakening in his bed, eyes streaming from the agony, he quickly unscrewed the cap of the vial that lay on his bedside table and pressed the rim to his lips. The elixir swilled down his throat, leaving a faintly-warm trace of energy in its wake.

Gehrman's spear had left its mark all those years ago, and surviving a mortal wound of such a calibre had left him with scars. The blood that had once healed him had left him with its kiss of death, however, and he had soon discovered that taking more was the only way to numb the pain that would, in all likeness, linger for the rest of his life.

Almost instantly, the pain subsided. But, being awake now as he was, Laurence decided against going back to sleep, and rose from the covers, tugging his gown off of its stand and tugging it on.

Outside of his window, the moon hung low over Yharnam's city spires, bathing it in a soft white glow. From the positioning of the Healing Church's base of operations, he could see almost the entire surrounding district in clear view. Locals had started to refer to this area as the Cathedral Ward, considering how strong the influence of the Church was in this sector, and the large population of church officials who resided in the blocks.

Gazing out over the tops of the rooves, past the smoking chimney stacks and grated metal balconies, Laurence felt bigger than ever before in his life. The Church may not have been as successful in convincing certain parts of Yharnam to buy into its miracle healing insurance, but their power was not inconsiderable. Not by a long shot.

" _The work we have done far surpasses anything we could ever have achieved at Byrgenwerth,_ " Laurence thought, as his eyes caught the distant treeline where his old home resided. " _Willem thinks me blind. But here, everybody can see how important I have become._ "

His memoirs were lain out on his desk, where he had left them the previous evening. With such grand thoughts, he seized his inkpot and quill and sat down to amend a few passages. By the light of the moon, he quickly added further detail to the work that he had begun at Byrgenwerth.

The discovery of the meteorite shards in the forest, and subsequent investigations, led _entirely_ by himself.

The move to get Yharnam's old catacombs reopened for the research – put forward by himself after extensive research.

Laurence only stopped writing when he heard the knock on his door. When he looked up from his feverish scrawling, a wild glint in his eyes, he saw that nearly two hours had ticked past, and the first shards of morning sunlight were peeking through his blinds.

"Yes?" Laurence called.

Ludwig entered his quarters, and Laurence saw the flush of his face. Sensing his companion's distress, he quickly bottled his ink and bolted upright to attention.

"Could this not have waited until morning?" he barked.

Ludwig recoiled slightly, a bemused hurt in his eyes. "But, it is morning, sire…"

Laurence did not reply, and simply stared at Ludwig, awaiting the man's business. After a few awkward seconds, Ludwig seemed to catch on, and, adjusting his collar, began his speech.

"The congregation is growing restless," he explained. "Last night, on of our priests was stabbed multiple times with a shard of broken glass just outside his home."

Laurence's eyebrows briefly floated upward. "Anyone I know?"

Ludwig swallowed. "Vicar Grayson. I believe he survived the attack, but… he is refusing to take blood, sire."

Laurence felt his fingers curling, and he forced them to lie still. "Why?"

"There's concern growing amongst the people, sire," Ludwig continued. "Borderline restlessness. About the blood healing. There's talk all around of people turning into monsters. They need answers, sire. The Choir is calling for you to address this, before it gets out of hand."

"The Choir don't call me," Laurence snapped. "I call them. They work for me!"

"Not for much longer, I fear," Ludwig responded, softer than a mouse and just as quiet. "There are… whispers… of division, sire. More and more turning to Mensis for answers."

"Mensis is my responsibility," Laurence growled. "Micolash knows that. But that bastard's been calling for civil war for a long time now. You're not telling me anything I don't already know, Ludwig!"

Ludwig's gaze dropped, and so did Laurence's fist, crashing hard onto the desk and scattering his inkpot across the floor.

"There's more, isn't there?" Laurence asked, breathing growing heavier by the second. He could already feel a new tingling in his chest, coming much faster than ever before.

Ludwig nodded. "It's Gehrman, sire. He's addressing the people."

* * *

Gehrman looked out over the crowd.

There were nearly three hundred people in the courtyard alone. Some held pitchforks and firearms, and the aura of the assembly – a fierce, but fright-fuelled anger – was near-overpowering.

He was about to step down from his podium when he saw Maria near the front of the crowd. Despite the growing aggression of the crowd, she had a faint smile on her lips, and she was looking with awe upon Gehrman.

The only man brave enough to talk to the people.

The only one who knew exactly what they had to fear.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Healing Church!" he cried out, the authority that permeated his words so suddenly enough to completely silence the agitated masses for a moment. "I am here before you because there have been rumours of terrible things happening in this city. Men and women, preyed upon in their own homes, by savage beasts, transformed from human beings!"

This last line was instantly greeted with a Mexican wave of riled voices, which Gehrman silenced quickly with a shot from his pistol, straight into the air.

"Speculate no longer," he boomed. "I am here to tell you, that I have seen such a phenomenon. The rumours are true."

The crowd exploded with a menagerie of frightened whimpering, furious shouting and gentle weeping. Gehrman quickly fired his pistol again, and the crowd looked on expectantly.

"This is not the time for panic," Gehrman professed. "The Healing Church is aware of this issue, and resolves to put an end to it, once and for all."

"You people created this!" a random voice in the crowd retorted. "You need to keep the hell out of it!"

"The Healing Church was not responsible for this," Gehrman riposted. "We have conducted extensive research on the matter, and the true cause… is ashen blood!"

Name-dropping the contagion that had, only several years prior, ravaged the population of Yharnam's impoverished districts was enough to cause a loud collective gasp from the crowd.

"We believe that the strain that infected the Market District is no longer dormant," Gehrman continued. "It has resurfaced. Evolved. It lies within all of us now, throughout the city."

The masses were not in any way consoled by such revelations. Several young children started to cry, their fathers tightening their grasp on their weapon of choice.

"But you needn't fear!" Gehrman went on. "Because the Healing Church can cure any and all ailments. Distribution of blood will, from henceforth, be made available for all, as a token of goodwill! We will stamp this out, together!"

Slowly, it seemed that the crowd were starting to come round. The nauseating aura of violence that had struck Gehrman as he stood before the crowd was starting to dim, replaced by a calm still that was almost comforting to the scholar, as he stood atop the masses, as the herald of their salvation.

"But what of the monsters that stalk our city streets!" another dissenting voice cried out. "How can we be safe from them?"

"The Church has devised a solution to this issue, as well," Gehrman announced. "Among our ranks we possess a great number of enhanced fighters. Men who have been lifted from amongst you, and conditioned to be far greater than any other. Together with these men, we will organise a nightly hunt. A safeguard for our sleeping city. We will wipe this menace out, night upon night, until there is nothing left, and this city is ours again."

"But how do we know you can do that?" the audience member retaliated. "We have only your word!"

Gehrman smiled, picking the man out from the crowd, and lifting the sack that he had planted at his feet.

"Then you make take this too," he replied, inverting the sack and letting the severed head of the beast that he had slain with Gascoigne fall out onto the courtyard pave.

Seeing the monster in broad daylight had a polarising effect on the crowd. Some were horrified, trying to back away from the bloodied monster part. However, the effect on most was one of awe. Grown men let out cries of triumph at seeing the menace of their city cut down so brutally and efficiently. The atmosphere once again metamorphosed, from serenity, to celebration. Gehrman beamed as the masses cheered aloud, grins replacing the angst and fear on the faces of the assembled congregation.

Catching Maria's eye, he saw that she too appeared rapturous. A great grin, bigger and more enthused than any that had come before, told Gehrman everything that he needed to know.

"The hunts will begin this very night!" he declared, before stepping away from his podium to a flurry of applause.

* * *

Laurence was waiting by the front entrance to the Healing Church when Gehrman approached a few moments later. The expression on his face was livid, his eyes daring Gehrman to defend his actions, and immediately condemning them in the event that he tried to do so. The Church Scholar, now it's very first hunter, no longer felt as though he was walking atop a cloud – now, he was straight underneath one.

Laurence's first words were eerily calm. "What was that?"

Gehrman steeled himself for a hostile response, and answered. "Damage control. I took initiative – I thought that you would approve."

The first vicar did not retaliate. He simply repeated his question, only more pronounced this time. "What was that?"

"That was me saving all of our asses," Gehrman replied. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Laurence stared hard at Gehrman. The space between the two was colder and more frigid than an iceberg, and the tension that hung there seemed just as fragile and prone to breaking up.

"What you did was reckless. You had no authority to say those things. But… I believe you made the right call."

Gehrman froze, somewhat shaken by the vicar's praise. "I am glad you see it that way."

Laurence shook his head. "Do not mistake me. You had no right to make that call. In this case, you have done the Church a service, but if you try something like this ever again, you will tempt more than my disapproval."

And with that parting gambit, the first vicar turned on his heels and went back inside the Church. Gehrman let out a long breath, briefly pondering the merit of disembowelling the vicar with the brunt of his siderite blade, before turning towards the Church entrance, and finding himself face-to-face with Maria.

"Some speech you gave," she said. The tone of her voice was unrecognisable to Gehrman, but it did not seem negative in nature.

Gehrman shrugged. "No doubt. Do you think it was the right thing to have done?"

Maria folded her arms. "What else could we have done? Let the mob break this place down? No, Gehrman, I think you were brave to address them like that. And with such boldness. Did you mean what you said about the hunts?"

"I did," Gehrman replied. "And I do. I… can't fight what's inside me anymore, Maria. The black void in my veins that only blood can fill. I've spent so many sleepless nights just staring at the ceiling, but all I know is, when I'm fighting… when I'm _killing…_ I've never felt more _alive…_ "

Maria's gaze softened as Gehrman tightened his fists and lowered his gaze to the ground, ashamed but strangely proud of what he had become.

"Can you show me?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. This isn't your burden to carry. You should go home."

And with that, he turned, ignoring the hurt on Maria's face, and walked the other way.

* * *

The green hue was gave away their presence first.

Archibald and Paarl had been hard at work for many hours, and day had turned timelessly into night without notice. They were both exhausted, their minds drifting from the racks of multi-coloured vials and leather dissection boards to the comforting embrace of their bed, but out of the corner of Paarl's eye, he saw the green glimmer in the darkness – the Verdigris that marked out the blade upon which it marked like a candle in the pitch black.

"Ludwig," Paarl announced. Archibald looked up from his notes as the brown-cloaked, wavy-haired Blade of the Church entered their laboratory, accompanied by his ever-scowling master.

"I hear you have made progress on the research, gentlemen," Laurence boomed.

Paarl shared a nervous glance with his research partner, before responding to the query.

"Our findings are conclusive, master Laurence."

The pause did little to temper Laurence's impatience. "And?"

"And.. I'm afraid all evidence shows that… the old blood is responsible for the transmutation."

Archibald cut in at this point, rather unwisely, to garnish the proclamation with further detail. "Curiously enough, sire, the framework for this beastly transformation exists in all of us. In our genes. I believe that treatment with the old blood is responsible for unlocking these forbidden strands of being. Almost like… opening our eyes, sire."

The association with Willem's old mantra was enough to complete evaporate Laurence's cool. The first vicar picked up a volume of 'Ivy: An Advanced Study' and threw it as hard as he could against the table where Archibald was standing. The doctor recoiled, yelping as the leather-clad book rebounded off of the wood and landed near his feet.

"Not what I wanted to hear," Laurence breathed, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.

"Believe us sire, we have checked and checked again," Paarl responded. "We didn't want to believe it either. But, alas, it is fully true. We have to cease the blood transfusions immediately."

Laurence's gaze darkened. "We will do no such thing."

Ludwig, who up until this point had been standing idly by, fingers tracing the luminous edge of his beloved blade, now tightened his grip on said weapon, raising to shoulder-level, as though preparing to use it.

"You will destroy your research," Laurence ordered. "Every last paper. Every last scrawl. Nothing will remain. And you will do it now."

"No!" Archibald cried. "I refuse!"

Laurence whirled around, shooting icy-cold bullets at the doctor.

"You have no choice in the matter!" he snarled. "You will do as I say, or suffer with your lives!"

As if to demonstrate, Ludwig swung his blade through the air, the elongated, glimmering point whistling as it rushed through the air.

Archibald screwed up his face, balling a fist and smashing it on his lab table.

"I've spent the last five years of my life – my career! – on this work. I will not give it up for the wishes of a madman!"

Laurence's glower turned from menacing to lethal in a second, and he turned to Ludwig like a flash of lightning.

"Slaughter these fools," he snapped.

The Holy Blade smiled apologetically at the pair. "Apologies, gentlemen. I wish there was some other way to clear the Church's name."

"There is no hiding from the truth," Paarl shot back.

"There is no truth here," Ludwig replied, genuine regret inflecting his somber tone. "Only deceptions that would turn the people of Yharnam against us. And I will not allow that."

With a final nod of respect, the Holy Blade leapt forwards, blade arcing forwards.

Paarl ducked back as the sword cut through the table he had just stood at, decapitating a microscope and sending a cupful of assorted jagged instruments to scatter across the floor in all directions. As Ludwig drew around for another swing, Paarl seized a nearby metal stand – upon which a bag full of beastly blood was attached, and hefted it up to block the blade's killing sweep. The clash of metal sent the doctor flying to the ground, the metal wrought in half, and the contents of the blood-filled sack exploding across the floor.

Across the room, Archibald had seized a pair of scissors. With a cry of outrage, he leapt at Ludwig. The stab that he aimed at the Blade's chest never hit its target, as Ludwig quickly swung his blade round, severing both of Archibald's hands at the stump. Bleeding heavily, the doctor let out a short and pitiful scream, before dropping softly to the ground.

Ludwig's ordinarily-dull, sympathetic eyes lit up with a feral rush at the sight of the fountains of blood. He broke out in a Cheshire grin, his whole body trembling uncontrollably.

"May the moonlight guide you to salvation," he chuckled. "As it has for myself."

As Ludwig raised his sword over his head to deliver what would surely be the killing blow, he suddenly fell forwards, agony searing his face. As Archibald and Laurence watched, astonished, blue sparks travelled all the way down his body, searing him with burns wherever his flesh was exposed.

Groaning limply, he his sword fell from his hands, impacting upon the floor just to the left of Archibald's head. Seconds later, he joined it on the ground.

Paarl was stood behind him. In his quivering hand, he held a small amulet of sorts, embedded with a blueish stone. From the remnants of blue lightning that coursed down his arm and rippled around the amulet, it was clear where the elemental attack had originated.

Archibald, despite being nearly unconscious and in a state of heavy deliria, let out a cry of joy.

"It works!" he giggled. "It really works!"

Paarl, still shaking from head-to-toe, prodded Ludwig's fallen body with his foot, prompting a short intake of air.

"He's still breathing," he said. "Dr. Archibald, we have to go."

"I might need a hand, my dear boy!" Archibald boomed, shrieking with laughter at his hysterical joke.

"Come on," Paarl said, bundling the man's wounds inside of his jacket and tightening it to stem any further blood loss. By this point, Archibald was fully unconscious, and Paarl hefted him onto his shoulder in order to move him.

Laurence briefly attempted to step in and prevent the pair's escape, but all it took to dissuade him was a threatening jab from Paarl, amulet still clutched tightly in-hand.

"I'll find you," the first vicar spat. "There is no escaping me in this town."

"We'll see about that," Paarl retorted, before shutting the door in the face of his boss for the last time.

* * *

Night fell, the dark creeping in from all directions and plunging Yharnam's dim streets into total shadow. It was nearly midnight.

Beneath the gentle sway of a wooden distillery signboard, Gehrman stood, waiting patiently with his blade tucked into a sheath on his back. His face, lit up by the creaky oil lantern that lay by his side, betrayed both his anxiety and his restlessness. He knew what he had gotten himself into, but at the time, it had simply seemed like the right thing to do. Now, standing in the cold with the smell of sewage creeping up his nostrils, he knew better.

In his waking moments he had agreed to face his nightmares.

His 'hunting party' showed up within the next half an hour. Most of them looked similarly troubled – wishing for the entire world that they could be locked away safely inside their homes, warmed by the coals of their fireplaces, rather than standing in the chilling night air, about to face the darkest hells imaginable. Some, however, seemed ominously cheerful, apparently relishing the idea of spilling beastly blood about the cobbles. One man, a church squire that Gehrman had seen maybe once or twice before in his life, wielded a makeshift halberd, constructed with a large wooden pole and an old, rusting sawblade. The hungry smile that he flashed at Gehrman as he arrived sent chills all the way through the scholar's guts.

To his surprise, there were also a few women present. None of them were Church nobles by any means, although the clothing they wore did not give the impression of poverty. One woman, a tall brunette with a wild glint in her eyes, caught Gehrman watching her, and slyly gestured to a silver glint tucked in her overall – a flintlock pistol belonging to a City Guard.

Before long, Gehrman picked out a figure in the crowd that distressed him even more. She stood with her back to him for a while, but he caught a glimpse of her hair as she turned to look at one of the men, practicing his shooting against one of the distillery's discoloured stone walls.

"Maria!" he cried, approaching her briskly. "What are you doing here?"

The Church scholar turned around to face him, her deepening expression exposing her irritation at his sharp greeting. "Hello, friend."

"I don't want you to be here," Gehrman said angrily. "Please, go."

Maria shook her head. "This is my choice, Gehrman. I want to stand with you. We're in this together, remember?"

Gehrman stamped his foot impatiently. "No! No, this is my nightmare, not yours!"

"Says who?" Maria snapped. "I may not have stabbed an alien with a spear or rolled about in its blood, but I've seen things I can ever take back! Things from beyond this world. Things straight from my darkest fears. This is not your nightmare. Neither is it mine. It is all of Yharnam's. And I choose to stand against it."

Gehrman opened his mouth to protest, but the words wouldn't come. Only a soft sigh, as the scholar realised the futility of further debate.

"Have you at least brought a weapon?" he asked.

Maria's frustration gave way almost immediately to a familiar smile, as she reached for her side, and produced a long sheathe.

"Family heirloom," she explained, as she whisked off the case and revealed a long, double-ended blade. Gehrman was stunned, his gaze caught by the fine craftsmanship on display.

"That's no Yharnam blade," an onlooker exclaimed.

"Maria," Gehrman whispered. "That's.. That's…"

"A Cainhurst weapon," Maria finished, replacing the blade before one of the watching group tried to get a closer look. "It was my mother's. She called it her "fallen leaf.""

"Beautiful…" Gehrman mouthed, catching a glimpse of engraving on the sword's sheen before it disappeared from view.

"Are you talking to me or the sword?" Maria asked, chuckling as Gehrman snapped back to his senses, and his gaze flew all over the place.

"I hope you know how to use it," he said sheepishly, before clearing his throat and turning to his party. "Alright, people. This isn't going to be like anything any of you have ever done before. At least… I hope it isn't."

Gehrman paused as he felt Maria's hand slip inside of his own. He felt slight warmth, a gentle tingle in his bones, and then it was gone, replaced by a bright fire that completely invigorated all of his senses.

"You may see things that frighten you," he professed. "Hell, you may never sleep again. But we are carrying out a duty for our city. We face our nightmares so our loved ones may sleep tight in their beds!"

Nodding heads amongst the assembly gave justification to Gehrman's confidence. He found himself raising his blade into the air above his head, the will of his entire party flowing through him.

"Let us hunt bad dreams," he cried, his voice raised and rallied across the night by his brigade.

* * *

 _\- Twelve Weeks Later –_

Laurence sat at the head of the table, a glass of fine red wine upon the surface in front of him. Ludwig was by his side, face as blank as a slate, but still reddened by the burns he had sustained months prior. He had been instructed to be vigilant – the content of this meeting could provoke violence, and in such an event, he had been tasked with retaliation. The Holy Blade held onto hope that such force would prove unnecessary.

As Gehrman looked about the faces of his fellow Church officials, he felt their fear welling up. The hunter could hardly blame them for feeling tense. He too felt tightness in his body, his gut churning with nerves – but he felt this way for altogether different reasons than the rest. Gazing at Maria beside him and the uncharacteristic silence which she held told him all he needed to know. She felt the same way.

Laurence broke the silence, although from the tone of his words, it clearly pained him to do so.

"Thank you all for coming. You are my most trusted council, and I know that you trust in me, as the head of this organisation. As your leader. But today, I face a task that is altogether too daunting, even for myself, to face alone."

This last sentence caused Willem to chuckle. "Ah, as dramatic as ever, Laurence. You have changed nearly naught at all; even though all of our circumstances have changed so much."

Laurence looked at his old master, the coldness carried across the gap between the pair akin to a winter wind. "I have changed, Willem. I have taken a responsibility for my research which you never could. Or ever would. If you have come to belittle me, then you have had a wasted trip, for I have no patience for your so-called wisdom."

Willem did not respond at first. He seemed content to sway gently in his creaking chair, much to the chagrin of Caryll, his only companion from Byrgenwerth, and one who seemed much less insouciant about the proceedings.

However, just when the carefree rocking was more than anyone at the table could take, the Byrgenwerth master spoke up once more.

"I wouldn't come if it wasn't important, my old pupil. I have important matters to discuss with you all."

Laurence leant forward, hands laid flat across the desk.

"Enlighten us."

Willem smiled at him.

"Have you ever heard of a place called _Yearnsmouth?"_


	7. Boundless Blue Sea

**A/N:** **Inspiration for this pivotal chapter comes from Lovecraft's Call of Cthulhu, and Shadow over Innsmouth. Perhaps one of the most passionate pices that I have ever written, it serves as the true turning point in the story as well as the lives of these characters. Playing this DLC was a true experience for me, and I hope that, whether or not you have taken this journey as well, this chapter provides similar emotions as the ones I felt. And, be warned, for this chapter contains extreme darkness, envisaging the human condition at its most depraved and vile.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven: Boundless Blue Sea**

Could any of it be true?

The question haunted Gehrman as he lay back in his bed, head practically melting into his pillow, as the tight grasp of fatigue curled around him.

For certain, the Great Ones were no fable. He had first-hand evidence of this. Heck, he'd even had the blood of one between his fingers and under his nails, where only dozens of vigorous scrubs could clean.

But could another have come down to earth? And not just any cosmic entity either – Kos, a being purported by Byrgenwerth and the Church's research to be the embodiment of sight. The missing link between the world of the cosmos, and the world of men. Insight, if you will.

Ultimately, the answers didn't matter. No amount of understanding or comprehension of this strange world that he lived in could shake Gehrman's resolve.

Yearnsmouth had taken Rom – swallowed him whole, never to be seen again. And he wasn't about to lie down and accept that his old colleague was just gone like that. Not without some kind of resolution.

In the morning, Gehrman was straight out of bed, his hands fumbling beneath the wooden frame and tugging out the woollen bundle that he had stashed inside. His siderite blade, and the metal grip that he had subsequently built for it, practically shared his quarters with him now. Without them close by, the fluttering of his heart would not cease. The quivering of his fingers as he lay idle under his sheets.

They had shared every adventure with him. Every nightmare. They were one with him, and the hunt. And now they would serve him again, on the most important day of his life.

The sun peeked out from behind the blinds, and Gehrman knew the moment he had been dreading had arrived.

Morning had come.

As had his destiny.

* * *

"The expedition may last over a week. We are not prepared for what we may find. But you will need to bring every ounce of your strength with you. As you always have."

Gehrman looked about his party. The Workshop Hunters had come a long way since their creation – a beginning most unlike a fairy tale, shrouded in blood and fear and violence. He saw Izzy, one of the most violent members of the brigade, sharpening her claws with a knife. Upon noticing Gehrman's eyes upon her, Izzy gave him a dark smile, and Gehrman quickly pulled away.

"Do you know what to expect, captain?"

Gehrman turned to face the hunter who had spoken. "I'm afraid not, Logarius. All we have heard is whispers of monsters from fleeing locals. I suppose we can take from that what we will."

Logarius nodded, before his gaze was set on another. "Good morning, miss Maria."

Maria, who was geared up in her hunting attire, Rakuyo in its sheathe, nodded respectfully at Logarius, before her eyes fell on Gerhman. "Hey, _captain_."

Gehrman rolled his eyes. "I told you that you shouldn't call me that, Maria."

"Very well, captain," Maria chuckled. "You seem nervous."

"Is that wrong of me?" Gehrman asked, scrutinising his companion's expression closely.

Maria held his gaze firmly. "Of course not. I'm just surprised is all. You trained this company, and yet you seem more afraid than any of them."

Gehrman nodded slowly. "I know more than they. We are not facing ordinary beasts today, but a being from the cosmos. And, considering how fantastically that worked out last time…"

Maria sighed and gripped Gehrman's hand tightly. "We cannot possibly know what to expect. Stay strong, my friend. We still need your guidance."

"Do you heck," Gehrman muttered, smiling softly.

The crowd of hunters parted, and Laurence strolled through them, enormous, shell-like rucksack on his back. Ludwig walked beside him, his beloved sword of moonlight tucked away from view, but presence still felt keenly by all of those who knew the Holy Blade well. Even his eyes seemed to glimmer whiter now. It was as though the power of his blade held him completely in its thrall.

"Just like old times, eh?" Laurence said, addressing Gerhman and Maria. "An expedition into the unknown… the great beyond. Exciting, eh?"

"Let's just hope nobody gets hurt this time," Gehrman replied, now vividly picturing that fateful moment all those years ago below Yharnam, and the frightful images that it conjured – ones he could never quite expel.

Izzy snorted. "Oh, somebody is going to be harmed. I can quite earnestly assure you of that."

Ludwig looked across the way at his fellow hunter, disdain clear upon his squire-like features. The Holy Blade had only agreed to come in order to provide personal protection to Laurence, who had quickly taken a favoritism to his unique brand of hunting.

Laurence wrinkled his nose, apparently finding his bodyguard's words distasteful. "Remember, we are not monsters. These people have Rom, and if they are willing to part with him peacefully, there need be no violence."

Darkness crossed Izzy's face. It was clear that this wasn't any answer she had wanted to hear.

"We should depart," Laurence continued. "We have a great distance to cover before the sun falls."

* * *

The winding path to Yearnsmouth eventually ran through a dense forest. The canopies of trees loomed high above the party, and the knots of roots and vines, in the light of the late afternoon, became like veins. Cutting through them was a sickly affair, as though any misplaced swipe could cause a chain reaction through the entire forest. On top of this, a deep silver fog had set in, and the way ahead was no longer clear. Even by lantern-light, there was no way of pressing ahead at any reasonable pace without risk of injury.

Suddenly, this perfectly-ordinary forest was like another world, and not one that Gehrman felt particularly comfortable in.

"Maybe we should stop," he called. "It's growing dark, and we may become lost if we press on in such unfavourable conditions."

At their leader's command, every Workshop Hunter in the party stopped, much to Laurence's displeasure.

"Ignore him," he retorted. "We have to make it through the valley before dark, or we lose precious time."

The party did not respond to Laurence's command. The vicar felt the first embers of a fiery fury brewing in his chest.

"Are you deliberately ignoring an order from your leader?" he growled.

One of the Workshop Hunters, a round man named Barkley, replied sullenly. "You are not our leader. Gehrman is."

Even in the low light, Gehrman could see Laurence's expression contort with anger. "And I am his leader. I am the _founder_ of the Healing Church, and you will do as I say!"

The Workshop Hunters continued their protest, their feet firmly planted upon the nest of brown, muddied leaves that littered the forest floor. Ludwig, a man fascinated by the Knight's code of old, stood by and watched with awe at the loyalty that the hunters bestowed unto their leader. Seeing no other option, Laurence looked desperately at Gehrman, who wearily raised a hand and cried "We will press on, as Laurence has suggested."

Immediately, the hunters started to walk again. Gehrman caught Laurence's eye just before he turned away, and he briefly saw the deepening resentment in the man's gaze, flickering like a dimming bulb before being extinguished. Maria was at Gehrman's side, and she too seemed unnerved by the sudden tension between the group. "What was that about?"

Gehrman shrugged quietly, certain that a sudden movement would again attract Laurence's spiteful attention.

The party hadn't walked far before stopping again, this time in the middle of a large stretch of black, tar-like mud. Barkley, who was at the head of the party, had frozen at the foot of the bog, his gaze fixed sternly on something unseen on the path ahead, obscured by a vortex of grey.

"What is it, Barkley?" Gehrman asked, peering out, but seeing nothing.

Barkley pointed a finger ahead of him. "There's a group of men, standing in the path…"

Sure enough, as Gehrman drew closer he could make out three tall shadowy figures standing in the middle of the swamped path ahead. Even from a distance, Gehrman could tell that they were armed; one carried a traditional blunderbuss whilst the other two had sabres in tucked inside their belt.

As Gehrman stepped closer, one of the men spoke.

"Take one more step and we will blow your head off."

By now, everyone in the party was aware of the threat. Several of them reached for their weapons on instinct alone, but Gehrman put out his palm, gesturing them to be still. Laurence rushed forward, Ludwig quickly tailing him. The vicar was already in an irate mood, and now he seemed completely oblivious to common sense, making a beeline straight for the fog-shrouded trio.

"We are armed as well!" he cried. "And we outnumber you nearly five-to-one. You will stand aside immediately!"

"We will do no such thing," the man replied. "I am Sergeant Doyle. This is Officer Lionel and Officer Rogers. We are here to arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit genocide, and for the murder of Sergeant Clifford."

The daunting statement led to a gasp throughout the assembly. They were no longer facing highwaymen or bandits, but officers of the constabulary. And any action against them would make them all criminals.

Laurence did not react well to the inspector's demands. Almost immediately, he tapped Ludwig on the shoulder, giving the Holy Blade the signal that preventative action was about to become necessary.

"And what if I refuse?" he asked.

Doyle hefted his blunderbuss, pointing the barrel straight at Laurence's chest, where Ebrietas had already left her malicious mark.

"Then we will slaughter your party and bring you in by for-"

Sergeant Doyle never got to finish his ominous sentence. Just as he was gesturing to his colleagues to draw their own weapons, a black blur rushed at him out of the darkness, colliding with him hard. As Gehrman watched, horrified, Izzy's malicious gauntlets shredded straight through the man's midsection like it were made of butter, and with an empty gasp, his top half slid off of his bottom, bloodied meat spilling over the grass beneath.

Lionel and Rogers attempted to draw their own weapons, but were interrupted by a second flurry of slashes, which struck them both in quick succession, reducing them instantly to a puddle of guts on the ground.

Izzy turned to her party and gave them an odious grin. Ludwig, who had been arming himself just moments before, lowered his sword, the green light slowly retreating back into its glossy shaft. His face was a dictionary definition of sheer repulsion. The entire party was silent. Even Laurence, who had been all-but willing to order an attack, was mortified at the sight of the officers reduced in such a way. For a moment, he did not speak, his eyes fluttering as they attempted to wipe all traces of what they had seen away. Then, his voice came, low and painfully.

"Good work… Izzy… thank you."

One of the hunters violently vomited. Gehrman wished that he could join the man, the contents of his stomach also churning like a rough sea. But with it came a sensation of vacuum, and he knew that the relief would not come.

Hunts were one thing, but this was just murder. Plain and simple.

"We… continue," Laurence said weakly. "We are almost there."

They were not, in fact, almost there, or even close. Not that anybody was aware of that at the time, or cared when they later realised. They had rather a lot on their minds.

* * *

Loriana winced as the icy cold water ran down her fingers. The tunic that she was washing dripped like a faucet, the frigid lake waters that the townsfolk used for everything from cleaning to drinking coursing down. Shivering, she rubbed her hands together, trying hard to ignore the beginnings of scales along the backs of her hands as the waters below her ran a brief pink from the crushed soaps she was using.

Across the way, Loriana could see the fishermen hauling in their catches. Huge buckets, draped in seaweed, were being dragged along the beach, sand strewn recklessly in their wake. The pungent, rotten smell of a watery grave filled the air, and Loriana had to pinch her nose just to evade it.

Every so often, unnoticed or simply uncared about by the fishermen, a slimy, wriggling white mass would drop from out of their nets, burrowing quickly into the sand as soon as they landed. Loriana knew that the creature would resurface when it was dark, slithering across the wet sand at a glacial but determined pace, until it reached one of the local huts. When it found a villager, fast asleep in their beds, it would push its way down their throat, laying its spawn inside of their bellies, before crawling out again and finding a quiet place to die.

How nobody else saw any of this was astonishing. But Loriana had always been good at watching – even as a child.

Unfortunately, not quite good enough.

The back of her neck began to itch, and she quickly scraped her nails across it, flakes of her squamous skin falling free to be blown in the wind, like snowfall in winter.

The end times had come. And yet Loriana kept cleaning. For she was a washerwoman – it was the only life she knew.

"Lori?"

Loriana turned her head at the sound of her father's voice, strained, but still clear over the churning waves.

"Yes, father?" she called.

Maxwell, one of the hamlet's chief priests, was greying now, but possessed an almost-inhuman spring in his step. As he walked across the sands to meet his daughter, prayer book tucked beneath his scaly arm, he even managed a smile through crooked, withered teeth.

"My child, come to prayer this afternoon. I plead you."

Loriana's gaze dropped. "Father, we have talked about this. You know how I feel about it."

"And I wish to sway your mind - that is all…" Her father tucked his holy book away, and sat down wearily in the sands beside his daughter. Gaze seaward, he let out a long sigh. "You think us blasphemers, but can't you see, we are only embracing the path which was presented to us. I believe it is the path we were meant to walk."

"That _thing_ is not a God," Loriana retorted, frustration welling up inside of her. "It's a monster. It should have been left well alone; let the sea take it back to whence it came. Can't you see what it has done to our village?"

Maxwell let his eyelids close, and he replied in a sombre voice. "I can see all too clearly, my child. Mother Kos has blessed us. She has given us the chance to be reborn."

Loriana pounded her fist in the mushy sand. "You can't really believe that!"

"The evidence is there for all to see," Maxwell replied calmly. "You cannot deny it. You too bear her kiss…"

Loriana, instantly flooded with shame and disgust, drew her headscarf around the exposed scales that ran down her neck.

"I'd sooner die than praise the abomination that has doomed my family," Loriana spat, rising to her feet angrily. "I can't believe you still think yourself a man of faith. No God created this. The devil did."

Maxwell was no longer listening, however. He sat quietly, with his head bowed, listening to the sea, and muttering under his breath.

"Plip…plop…plip...plop…"

* * *

As the first light of dawn rose over the hills in the east, Gehrman caught his first glimpse of the fishing hamlet.

Outside of Old Yharnam, he had never seen such a squalid place in his entire life. The grey morning sky was an oasis of colour and beauty compared to the ramshackle cluster of huts, walkways and rope-suspended fishing equipment that greeted the party. The scent of the ocean, all salty and crisp, was nearly entirely obscured by the haze of death that filled the air. Even for a hunting village, where fish are gutted and drained of their insides as a way of life, the stench was overwhelmingly potent, and several members of the party drew back on first contact with the miasma.

"Smells worse than the canal!" Barkley grunted, waving a hand in front of his face.

"I like it," Izzy smiled. "The scent of the hunt back home was growing stale."

"Remember, we give them a chance to give up peacefully," Gehrman declared. "There doesn't have to be bloodshed."

"No," Izzy said. "But it would be preferable."

As the party drew closer, the swinging lanterns and fishing nets becoming visible, a lone figure stepped out into the path ahead. Even from a distance, Gehrman could see the man was armed, a large hook and rope in his left hand.

"I guess you folks didn't get the message clearly enough last time," the figure cried out, voice gravelly and cold. "We don't take kindly to outsiders here. Especially not Byrgenwerth filth."

Gehrman stepped forward, in spite of Laurence's clear antagonism towards the new arrival, curling his fists silently.

"What did you do to them?" he shouted. "Rom, and the others?"

"The ocean has them now," the man growled. "And if you don't turn right back around, you'll be joining them."

"You and whose army?" Izzy sneered, edging forwards, much to Gehrman's unease.

The man raised his arms high, and at the signal, around thirty sailors with hooks, machetes, harpoons and firebombs filtered out into the opening from places of concealment all around the town's front houses.

"Last chance," Gehrman warned. "We have weapons, but we don't want to use them."

"Liar," the man said, a sickening grin on his face. With a bellow, he gave the order to attack, both arms raised into the air. However, before a single firebomb could be cast, Ludwig stepped forwards, slicing the tip of his luminous blade into the earth, and volleying a shockwave of green across the ground.

The resulting damage was hideous. The front flank, consisting of some five or so men, was obliterated, blood and tattered clothes pirouetting through the air. The remaining crowd was thrown aside, panic racing through them like flames catching oil.

Ludwig watched the ensuing destruction with a great sorrow. He closed his eyes, letting the moonlight behind his eyelids soothe his frayed nerves. "Forgive me."

Recovering quickly from the attack, the lead sailor screamed. "Kill them!"

Gehrman looked at his party, and gave a silent nod. At his command, the Workshop Hunters sprinted into battle, blades raised, and firearms practically steaming at the barrel. In the ensuing chaos, Gehrman spotted Maria, and gave chase, determined to keep his friend from harm.

The surviving sailors did not recoil from the sight of the attacking forces, many of them rushing forward to meet them head-on. Meat hooks were swung, but few of them met their targets, for the Workshop Hunters were inhumanly agile, fuelled by an electrifying cocktail of cosmic blood and adrenaline. Barkley led the charge, his enormous steel hammer raised. As he met with a machete-wielding sailor, he swung with abandon, crushing the man's arms to pulp, before pulverising the remains for good measure. Off to the side, the feral Izzy tangled with a sailor wielding a dual set of jack-knives. Her talons, hued from a beast she had mercilessly slaughtered on a hunt, carved through the man with ease, his gashing blows barely enough to stagger his maddened attacker.

Blood sprayed in the surf, the sand discoloured by the sanguine. Amidst the ruinous battle, Gehrman caught up with Maria, as she came face-to-face with the elder fisherman who had first greeted the party. He had been hit by a stray bullet, and blood was gushing from his shoulder, but he continued to swing out with his hook, pure hatred clouding his features.

"They're all dead, ya hear me!" he wailed. "You will never see your friends again!"

Maria watched, mournful, as the man helplessly swung, slowly backing up against the wall, and continuing to spew as much abuse as he could manage.

As though noticing the kinship between his onlooker and Gehrman, the man who had brought this hell to his door, he pointed a quivering finger at the pair. "Mother Kos will desecrate your wretched whore, and make you watch, you pitiful, vile-"

The man fell silent as Maria lurched forward, stabbing the man through the heart with both blades of her Rakuyo. When she was absolutely certain that no further sound would come out of his scaly lips, she withdrew her blades, and let his lifeless, blood-soaked corpse slide into the wet gravel.

"What happened to these people…?" Maria whispered, seeing now for the first time the extent of corruption that had overtaken the sailors. All that remained of the man's human form was his eyes – the rest of his body had been horribly malformed, fins and grey scales all over his body, and a pair of gills on both sides of his neck.

Gehrman did not reply. There was no answer that he could give that could grant her any comfort. Behind him, the sounds of fighting began to recede. As Laurence looked on, safe at a distance, he saw Ludwig drive his luminous sword through an attacking fish-man, cleaving him open from the top of his spine. The hysterical bloodshed was nearly more than the scholar could bear, but yet he watched, mesmerised as the horrifying disciples of Kos were cut down brutally and without a hint of mercy.

As the last drops of blood hit the water, Gehrman saw Barkley on his knees, and rushed to his side. He quickly saw the knife that had been thrust into his side, and let out a furious curse. The hunter rolled onto his side, looked up at his leader, and smiled.

"That was a fine hunt," he murmured, voice faint and growing softer by the second.

"You never disappoint us, Barkley," Gehrman replied, clasping the man's outstretched hand as his sea-blue pupils began to dilute and waver.

"I have research back at the Workshop," Barkley whispered. "If you would use it however you can, you would do me one last honour…"

"Of course," Gehrman nodded. "The Workshop has no finer craftsman."

Barkley chuckled, nearly inaudible over the crashing of the waves. "You know what I say… "'If it ain't got kick, it just ain't worth it...'"

Gehrman smiled as the sombre nature of the moment was completely overshadowed by the goofiness of the old Powder Keg's famous saying. However, the joy quickly turned to despair as Barkley's head dropped, and his body went deathly still.

"Rest well," Gehrman whispered, before turning to face the rest of his fellow hunters. Their numbers remained strong – it seemed that Barkley was the only casualty thus far.

"Don't let his death be for nothing," he cried. "Rejoice in our conquest."

"Not yet, I'm afraid" a voice cut in.

Ludwig had turned a corner into the hamlet, and stumbled upon something quite horrific. As Gehrman, Maria and Laurence rounded the corner, they saw it too, and gasped.

The Byrgenwerth party led by Rom had all been decapitated, and their heads placed on fishing spears all around the village. Although the heads were deeply-charred, some of them to the point of indistinguishability, there was no mistaking their origin. These fish-men abominations had paraded their vicious manslaughter around like a celebration, and kept the trophies for all to see. Such revelations were more than the Workshop Hunters – men and women used only to the sport of killing mindless beasts – could comprehend.

Gehrman felt the mood of the party change almost immediately. Before, there had been elements of anger factoring into the hunters' bloody slaughtering, but now, there was only simmering fury rippling throughout the entire party. Many of the Workshop Hunters had once been scholars at Byrgenwerth, and seeing the horrific fate of their old colleagues was like a stake through their chests.

Whatever these villagers had become – human, or nay - they had now sealed their fate.

* * *

Loriana shot out of bed. Through her open window, the sound of gunfire was growing to a climax, and a dreadful cacophony of combat – metal clashing and flesh tearing – was bounding down the streets.

Her father, still dressed up for church, was sat in his mouldy old armchair by the window. He watched as the smoke rose up above the slate rooves of his neighbours' houses, geysers of blood staining the walls and sand like a ghoulish art display, and spoke not a word of response. He barely even looked up when his daughter burst in, her face a white sheet of sheer terror.

"Father, we have to leave!" she cried. The old priest made no attempt to move, however.

"It's like I always knew," he whispered, a deep sorrow emanating from him as he sat lifelessly in his old seat. "Communion with the gods is a matter reserved only for the dead. I suppose we just got in early…"

Loriana grabbed her father by his frail, bony arm, and shook him hard, hoping that she would somehow shake loose the blinds that had obscured his common sense for so long. "Father, please! We will die!"

Maxwell still did not move. His mouth hung open, and as several strange men, all carrying awful serrated weapons of the kind that Loriana had never before seen ran past the window, the last reserves of the old man's mind seemed to finally break and fall away, as his once-powerful voice devolved into mindless whispers.

"Plip…plop…plip…plop…"

Suddenly, the window was hit with a loud bang, and the glass exploded inwards, scattering across the carpet. Several shards imbedded themselves into the motionless Maxwell, who did not stop his chanting. Loriana screamed as a duo of cloaked figures leapt into their house. One of them held a huge blade that shone with a strange green light, and as Loriana met the figure's gaze, she realised that she knew exactly where it was headed.

"Please, don't do this…" she begged.

Ludwig tried his best to ignore the woman's feeble cries, and with evident reluctance, pierced her abdomen with the tip of his blade. The woman's face was contorted with pain, and as she threw her head back and screamed, the scales on her neck shone against the sword's shimmering glow. At the sight of the unholy corruption, Ludwig's somber slaughter spiraled out of control, and into something far more hideous, fear taking over and welling up inside of him like an overflowing faucet. Withdrawing his blade for a second, he then proceeded to drive it through the woman again and again, up to five times, before finally slicing through her like a sheet of paper.

Maxwell still didn't look up, even as his daughter was butchered like an animal, one of the hunters going so far as to cut open the top of her head and rummage about inside of her skull. He was lost in a swirling maelstrom of thoughts, none of which were his own, and as the man who had killed his daughter turned his blood-sodden blade unto him, he barely even felt it.

* * *

Some of the hunters broke into the hamlet's lighthouse and pilfered the stock of oil reserves. Within minutes, the village was on fire, the wild plumes of flame licking across the whole town in mere minutes, incinerating every last they touched.

Most of the villagers were – mercifully, perhaps – already dead by the time the flames caught their bodies, but those who lacked such fortune could be heard from miles away, their piercing wails breaking the otherwise tranquil silence that had descended upon the Yearnsmouth Coast. Unfortunately, their fishy scales did not grant them any kind of immunity to flame, and they burned like firewood in the ashes of their shacks.

Gehrman kept his distance from the majority of the bloodshed. He too was enraged by the disgusting treatment of his Byrgenwerth colleagues, but the extent of the revenge wrought upon the hamlet was extreme, even by his standard of slaughter. The stench of fish that had previously permeated the air was now replaced by one far worse – the smoke of a hundred dead bodies as they were turned to ash and sent dancing through the air. As he slowly walked across an old stone courtyard, the red haze of embers in his wake, he saw that several villagers' bodies had been strung up in a similar fashion to that of Rom's party, their dangling corpse's arranged into a crude approximation of the Workshop's signature symbol.

The mark, now synonymous with the nightly hunt, had been adapted from a Pthumerian word for peacekeeping. The irony of the observation was bitter in Gehrman's mouth, and he found himself pausing to gaze at the odious symbol, fighting back the urge to vomit.

"We did what we had to," a voice behind him said.

Maria, her Rakuyo dampened with the blood of many, many villagers, was also fixated on the symbol, but her features betrayed no internal guilt or suffering. In fact, she was far too calm for the situation she was in. Just seeing this filled Gehrman with an indescribable, sickly coldness.

"The spirits of our comrades may rest in peace now," she whispered. "And we have so much to gain from all of this. Imagine the insight we may gain if we carry out research on these malformed creatures… Just think about th-"

"Maria, please!" Gehrman cried. "This is a massacre. It is nothing to be celebrated!"

Maria stopped, and looked on at Gehrman. He saw a deep dark in her eyes that hadn't seemed to exist before, and, as she arched her shoulders and curled her fists tighter around her Rakuyo, he realised that she had turned her fury onto him.

"And I'd expected so much more from you… The man who started this whole thing! The man who spilled the first blood in our war with the cosmos!"

Gehrman froze, remembering how he had thrown that pick at Ebrietas, all those years ago, in a moment of weakness.

A moment of fear…

" _Could… Could I actually be responsible for this…?"_

Before Gehrman could offer up any sort of response, the pair's attention was drawn by a slight cry from one of the adjacent buildings. Flames had already started to crawl up its wooden structure, but through the wisps of billowing black smoke, Gehrman made the figure of a small child, crouched under the burning beams.

"We have to help her!" Gehrman shouted.

Maria made a look as though she wanted to challenge him, but no words came. Gehrman ran towards the house, ignoring the fierce pain that filled his lungs with every intake of breath.

"Hold on!" he cried, hoping that the child could hear him.

The figure did not move, apparently not recognising the oncoming man as one of the horde that had brought ruin to her town. Or, perhaps the desire to live outmatched the fear that the girl must have felt. But, when Gehrman was just inches from the child's face, the light from the flames illuminated their face, and the hunter drew back, horrified.

This was no human. The 'child's face was horribly misshapen, bloated in the cheeks and closely resembled a fattened fish, rather than a person. The sight of the young child, so horribly malformed, was enough to shock Gehrman into a complete standstill, only ceasing when the roof of the burning shack groaned and caved inwards, sending the hunter sprawling onto his back, the cold waters beneath him swiftly jolting him back to lucidity.

The child's screams were lost in the chaos, and as Gehrman slowly rose to his feet, blinking back tears through stinging eyes, a wilful, unshakeable sorrow writhing deep in his core.

Even Maria, whose bloodlust towards the villagers had been some of the most shocking, was deathly white now against the red haze that lit up the world behind her. Petrified, she dropped her Rakuyo with quivering hands, and fell onto her knees.

"What have we done?" she whispered, then louder. "What have we done?!"

Laurence, accompanied as always by his zealous bodyguard, came rushing into the clearing. His expression was at once both one of catatonia and rapture, and, through breathless gasps, he spoke to the duo of Gehrman and Maria.

"We've found the beach… The origin of all of this awaits us there… Come on!"

Sharp numbness had set into Gehrman's legs, and yet he walked, propelled by something more than just sheer will. It was almost as though a desire to make amends - to atone - had replaced everything else. Maria followed suit, choking back tears as the black smoke storm reached the courtyard, the gaseous black tendrils reaching out from all directions.

The winding path down to the ocean inlet led the party through a series of caverns. Just before stepping into the darkness once again, Gehrman took one last look at the streaks of orange and red that lit up the sky behind him, a single, sorrowful sigh escaping his lips.

Then, the first hunter was gone, swallowed by the black from whence he came.


	8. Dark Waters

**Chapter Eight: Dark Waters**

 _"_ _We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far."_ _―_ _H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu_

* * *

 _Two Years Ago_

The brickwork crumbled apart at the very touch of Ludwig's fingers. The doorway, which had been subtly built into the existing wall and was nearly indistinguishable from it, was a faded lime green. It was sufficiently weak that so much as a stray breath could have provoked its collapse, and indeed, even approaching it had cause dust to fall from its cracked body like a waterfall of ruin.

The connecting room, a small antechamber of sorts, was flooded with a luminous green light, and as Ludwig stepped over the threshold, he felt strange warmth emanating from the cavern. A powerful presence, akin to a wave of air - but much less corporeal - seemed to push out at him, as though urging him to turn back. But Ludwig was not deterred – the other members of his expedition had completely left him behind and were unaware of his discovery, so encapsulated had they been by the prospect of finding more dusty tomes.

In the centre of the chamber was a large block of tinder, swathed in purple and green ivy. Protruding from the top, like something out of a fairy tale, was a large sword. It was the source of the verdigiris that flooded the cavern, as well as the force that continued to push at Ludwig – that much was clear just from staring at the thing, and feeling it stare back.

The scholar started to move towards it, as though caught in a trance. No coherent thoughts would come to him – all that mattered was the valuable find that he had in front of him; a treasure all of his own, far apart from the faded parchments and sickly-coloured herbs which his colleagues had been so entranced by.

Before he knew it, Ludwig's fingers had curled around the blade's hilt. Strangely comforting to the touch, Ludwig pulled the sword from its rest as though it were buried in a mound of butter rather than stone, and held it out in front of his face.

"Beautiful…" he whispered, the blade's green hue reflected in his widening pupils. "By the cosmos – where did you spring from?"

* * *

 _The Present_

The last remnants of the village militia attempted to stop the Workshop Hunters as they ploughed through the cindering town, spilling blood and guts with maniacal abandon. Men with harpoons and knives for disembowelling fish rushed forwards, the points of their weapons aimed at the attackers. But, like the rest of their kin, the fishermen were no fighters, and in the face of inhumanely-enhanced soldiers like the hunters, they were but cattle for slaughter.

Logarius, who had previously held back from most of the carnage for fear of giving in to his own, primal bloodlusts, could no longer resist his urges as he saw the fountains of crimson all around him, and quickly butchered the hook-wielding fish-man who leapt at him from out of the treeline, pounding him over and over until his bones were dust and his flesh was but a flattened mass of red.

To the blood-crazed hunters, it mattered none whether or not their enemies were actually attacking forces or not. Older, wheelchair-bound sailors and women - young, frail and everything in-between - were cut down on the spot, their wails completely ignored.

Amidst the maze of identical shacks lined with fishing poles and nets, there were a couple of buildings that seemed out of place. Shrines, no more than a few months old, erected in the glory of the townsfolk's beloved Mother Kos, adorned with flowers, trinkets and any possession deemed valuable by the fanatic villagers.

Most of these were destroyed. The idea of worshipping another faith than the Healing Church was heretical enough to warrant the wanton destruction of these peaceful statues, either pounded into pieces by the hunters' blunt weapons or buried under a pile of burning wood.

A whole culture was wiped off the face of the earth in mere hours. Priests dressed in fine, silk robes were dragged, kicking and screaming, from their homes, beaten to death in the street in front of their congregation. Scaled children of ages ranging from the more mature to the mere infant were hacked into pieces without restraint, their wailing mothers often following suit. Prayer books were torn apart. Incense was burnt. Eerie, yet innocent sketches of otherworldly beings were torn off of the walls of houses, stamped into the earth, and left for the trail of fire to devour.

And, as the town above was destroyed, deep below, in a network of caves, a branching group of hunters had reached the tidal inlet where, in times past, the fishermen of the town had cast out their boats, and later, brought in their day's haul. However, the hamlet had long since ceased to be a fishing town, and such histories did not apply.

The beach was now home to a deity from beyond the cosmos. The one who had granted Yearnsmouth its eyes; a vision of the terrifying world that surrounded them, which they were invited to join.

Kos lay out flat on its stomach near the edge of the rough grey waters. It was barely moving as the Hunters approached it, but nevertheless, life still remained in its horribly misshapen body - a fact that Izzy intended to rectify immediately. The hunter raised her claws high above his head, savouring the thrall of her power over the stricken Great One. The unearthly creature's skin, pale white in the sun's glorious yellow gaze, seemed to shudder with every fleeting breath it took. It arms, thin and long like that of an insect, flailed helplessly in the sand. It made no sound, no attempt to evade the terrible fate that awaited it. Izzy held her hands steady as her wicked talons started to fall.

"Hold!"

Izzy stopped, in spite of herself, and turned to see an old man in a white cloak striding towards her from across the sand. His face was mostly obscured by a tattered hood, but a grey beard hung low from his chin. His movements were weary – pained, even. However, he didn't let up his speed even for a second, and within a few moments – where not a single sound was made from anyone – he was upon the group.

"You're too late," he spluttered. "It has begun."

"Step aside, old man!" Izzy challenged. The man sighed, and bowed his head even farther.

"When Mother Kos came to us, she did so in great agony. She bore us gifts so that we could become her kin – it was the only way to save her. And we have succeeded."

At this, the man drew back his hood, and the Hunters let out a collective gasp. The man's entire head was ensnared by a strange white mass, with writhing tentacles that clung to his flesh like limpets. In the centre of the mass was a single, unblinking eye, dulled grey and lifeless, but with a strange presence that was unlike anything that the group had witnessed prior.

"What… are you?" Gehrman whispered, disgust and terror seamlessly intertwined on his features.

"I am a herald of the new age," the man wheezed. "Our Mother was attacked and left in great pain, and in her throes of agony she saw a vision of a future. A world where humanity and the cosmos were one – a beautiful and grand new life. Now, as the sole villager who shares in this vision, I am sworn to defend our Mother until her time has come. And that time is mere moments away…"

"What are you talking about?" Laurence interjected. The arching of his eyebrows confirmed Gehrman's suspicion – the vicar was fascinated by the man's words.

"The one who will lead us forth… They are nearly here… I need only hold you off a little longer…"

At this declaration, the man drew raised his palm, and from the churning sands beneath him, a short staff rose out, embedding itself within his curled fingers. On instinct, Izzy swung at the man, but he brought the staff up with surprising agility, wrenching her claws away, and knocking her into the surf at the edge of the waters. Upon seeing his companion fall, Ludwig rushed forward, but stopped as the man fixed his icy glare upon him.

"Your sword…" the man whispered, his newfound prowess briefly faltering at the sight of Ludwig's glowing blade. "It bears the light of the betrayer. You… were sent by them?"

"Sent by whom?" Ludwig asked, as he drew back from the reach of the man's staff. "You make little sense, but your aggression will not be tolerated. By the good blood, I will cut you down if you take one more step."

"Yes, I am certain of that," he coughed, drawing his staff back up for another attack. "You may talk of righteousness, but don't forget, your people have slaughtered our town. And, I can assure you, their lives shall not have been lost in vain."

The man suddenly struck his staff hard on the sand. With it, a bright white light erupted from the tip, and the ground beneath the hunter's feet began to shake.

"What's going on?" Maria shrieked, already unsheathing her Rakuyo.

Her question was answered shortly as the sand was suddenly and violently blown open, geysers of white shooting into the air. In its wake, the broken ground gave way to a frightful visage - a veritable army of tiny, wriggling creatures burst forth, their tiny eyes seeking out the men and women that had threatened their mother. In the ensuing chaos, Ludwig was sent sprawling, and his sword hit the wet sand with a thud.

Maria swung as the first of many launched itself up off of the ground, its tentacle limbs reaching out for her face. The Rakuyo's arc chopped the creature cleanly in half, and it hit the ground with a wet thud. As one of its kin attempted its own attack on Maria, and another on Gehrman, the contortion of Kos' body seemed to reach a climax, and the creature let out a long, guttural moan that seemed to shake the earth itself.

Gehrman cleaved two of the squid-like creatures in half before his gaze fell on the fallen Great One. The mage's eyes were also fixed on his beloved mother, and, in his distracted state, Gehrman took the opportunity to charge him, driving his blade through the man's chest. As he fell, blood spewing from the corners of his mouth, he gave one last fleeting cry – one that sent shivers down Gehrman's sturdy spine.

"He is awake…"

As its host body fell lifelessly to the sand, the creature leapt away, slimy arms stretched out hungrily for Gehrman's neck. The hunter reacted just in time, sweeping the monster away with his blade, its icky white blood slapping across his face.

Across the way, Maria and Ludwig, who had been frantically fighting off the attacking beasts, stopped dead. Their quarries lay still again on the surf, turning their solitary eyes towards their ailing mother, whose cries continued to lay siege to the silence.

"What's happening?" Laurence cried. "Is it dying?"

Gehrman scrutinized the flailing Great One, seeing how the movement in its body was staring to slow, and focus in on one particular spot.

"No…" he replied, voice faint. "Oh… oh, gods…"

Kos finally fell still, a final, pathetic moan escaping its maw. However, the trembling of its flesh continued, and as the horrified assembly watched, the folds of its skin began to part. A huge mass rose up through the Great One's hide, edging closer to the outside with every painful, everlasting second. Finally, the bulk reached the edge of its mother's womb, and burst out onto the ground.

The figure was comparable to a greyish humanoid, but any links to humanity ended there. Sodden with the insides of its dead mother, the abnormally large and gangly creature slowly and clumsily rose to its feet, stumbling on its own, and newly-developed feet. Its face, long and mournful, parted as the creature took in its first breath, back facing the hunters. A deep, resonant sound escaped from its mouth, which Gehrman quickly realised was a sob.

As the new-born had gotten up, it had slowly pulled out a large, gooey-wet red object, tethered to its arm by its own umbilical cord. Now, the blade-like placenta lay at its side, as it let out a further few wracking sobs, eyes fixed on the afternoon sun across the expanse of sea that lay ahead of it.

For a moment, it seemed as though the creature was so fixated on the light that it may start to walk feverishly toward it. But then, the thing turned back towards the humans that had witnessed its abhorrent birthing, and let out a long, petrifying wail.

The wriggling white masses seemed to be bowing to the new born Great One, their small heads lowered to the ground as their fleshy, sopping master took a few measured, unsteady steps towards them. Gehrman, who had not so much as moved since the creature had been born, jolted with panic as the creature's eyes met with his, and an odious sneer drew across its dishevelled face. For an infant, Kos' demented child seemed acutely aware, its glowering gaze seeping with hatred and rage towards those that, it seemed, had been responsible for its orphaning.

Gehrman reached hesitantly for his blade, and the creature watched him closely, yet reproachfully, waiting for him to make a move. Only a few feet away, Ludwig was on the ground, hand outstretched and reaching for his lost sword. Maria was completely rigid, her Rakuyo hanging limply in her hand beside her. However, it was Laurence whose response was the most disturbing. Upon his lips, rather than fear or repulsion or tension, was a gurning, lunatic's smile, and he made no attempt to mask it. The vicar was absolutely and completely enthralled by the demonic presence before him.

The stillness was more than Gehrman could bear. Just the thought of the creature watching him with such intensity was enough to contort his chest and strangulate his breaths. Suddenly, as though by no choice of his own, he had cocked his blunderbuss and pointed it at the infant Great One's head.

"Gehrman, stop!" Laurence called. But it was to no avail.

Taunted by the creature's malevolent glare, Gehrman's finger itched for the trigger, and found it, pulling it without further hesitation.

The explosive recoil of his gun caught the transfixed hunter by surprise, and his aim was smeared. The bullet, which had been intended for the creature's skull, instead found its left shoulder, and burst through it with a gush of red and a sick thud.

What happened next was a blur. The orphaned Great One erupted in a chorus of horrifying shrieks, lunging forwards at its attacker with speed that only a child, frenzied with fear, could sustain. Gehrman could barely react, and his hand only brushed his blade before the nightmarish new-born was upon him, striking him with its fist. The slap was like a wall of stone, and Gehrman felt his nose splinter and haemorrhage with blood as he whizzed back through the air, rendered weightless by the sheer force.

"Gehrman!" Maria shrieked, already charging the Orphan with her Rakuyo drawn out and raised high. The infant let out another warped cry and swept her aside with a frenetic rush of swipes from its placenta blade. The hunter saw the splashes of blood – all her own – and then black, as the Orphan smashed her head against the sand with grotesque force, and tossed her limp body aside.

By now all of the hunters had started to charge the Great One. Izzy, who had risen from the sea with renewed fury, leapt at the gangly creature, both beastly claws outstretched. However, she was knocked away with little effort, landing back in the riptide with a colossal splash. A couple of hunters tried attacking in unison, knives and hammers brought down against the Orphan's frail form. However, the blows barely affected the Orphan, the pain inflicted only serving to heighten its all-consuming fury. As one of the pair tried to sever its sword-arm, the Orphan pierced his throat with its blade, before pulling the man's corpse of the ground and driving it against his companion. Both men were split open on the blade like a pike, and the Orphan flung them away, the effort near trivial to the enraged child.

Laurence had been snapped out of his awe as the screams started, and he was nearly halfway across the inlet by now, but he could still see the fountains of red as the Orphan slaughtered his party of hunters as though they were mere play toys, trouncing their corpses into mush, and screeching all the while.

"Fall back!" the vicar cried. His order was heard by none, however, and in absence of any sort of control over the situation, Laurence resorted to cowering inside the cavern from whence he and his party had come. He sat with his back to the massacre, covering his ears and sobbing in a desperate attempt to block it all out.

Ludwig was next to charge the abominable child. His blade, alight with the passion of the moon, swung against the Orphan whilst its back was turned, busy strangling a fellow hunter who had foolishly attempted to strike the creature head-on. The Holy Blade beamed with grit teeth as he felt his blow connect explosively, a spasm sent through the Orphan as a pain-stricken screech left its lips. Ludwig dodged back as the Orphan swung its blade behind it, trying to catch its attacker. As the Great One recovered from its draining swipe, Ludwig struck again, blade piercing the Orphan's side. More inhuman wails followed, and Ludwig let out a cheer of triumph.

"My my, you have a temper, don't you beasty?"

The Orphan was struck again, and it fell back, blood pouring furiously from its wounds. Its cries grew feebler; its hands scrabbled helplessly in the sand, and Ludwig could practically feel the will flooding out of it.

"May you find salvation in the next world," he whispered, drawing back for a final, killing blow.

But then, something strange happened. As if all that they had seen previously was just a warm-up act, the Orphan suddenly started to convulse, pores on its back opening up and translucent, bluish wings tearing their way out. Ludwig slashed at the Orphan, but it reared up suddenly, and his blow was negated as the Great One barrelled into him with even more force than it had possessed before. The Blade was sent nearly six feet into the air, and when he landed, he felt his ribs shatter like a wine glass. The pain was white hot, and under the intensity of it, he quickly blacked out.

The battlefield was almost completely silent now, save for a few dying moans from stricken hunters. The Orphan seized its placenta blade in both hands, and leapt around the empty inlet like a wild animal, taking enormous pleasure in the success of its slaughter. But then, it came to a halt, its maniacal gaze landing on a lone human that had risen to their feet.

Gehrman.

* * *

The First Hunter faced off with the Orphan of Kos, neither making a move. The raw emotion that hung between the two was so real in that moment that it could have been seized and put in a museum case. The aroma of blood, both human and not-so, hung in the air, entangled with the salty sea air that blew in from across the waves.

Then, the two tore themselves at each other, blades swung with such ferocity and energy that the very air seemed to tremble under their blows. Gehrman's blade, now hooked up with its scythe counterpart, severed one of the Orphan's baneful butterfly wings, which the sand with a wet thud. The screeching Great One was quick to pay him back, driving its placenta straight through bone and lopping off Gehrman's right foot.

With both combatants suffering extreme wounds, they collapsed, just inches from each other in the gravel, and lay seething as their blood spilled out across the earth. Kos tore its eyes from Gehrman for a few moments, focusing on its dead mother across the way. The demented infant let out a chorus of soft moans, perhaps yearning to join with its mother, whilst still unwilling to forfeit the fight for its life. Gehrman, between pained roars, found himself looking out across the inlet for Maria, eventually spotting her lying about twenty metres away.

Seeing such a faint glimmer of hope still existed, willpower flooded him once again. In spite of his newly-inflicted crippling, he managed to rise, and with his scythe in both hands, swung for the Orphan one last time.

The Great One tore its eyes away from its mother just in time to witness the first and last human it had ever seen, as their curved brand cleaved through the base of its neck. The Orphan's face, forever a canvas of pure, malign loathing, fell away, and its lanky, misshapen body slumped onto the sand onto which it had been born only minutes before.

The world began to revolve around Gehrman, sky meeting sea and vice-versa. He fell on one knee, feeling a dull pain throbbing in his other leg, and a rush of blood pounding at the sides of his head. Just a few feet away, the herald of the new age stirred one last time, his eyes - crusted over with blood –straining for one last visage of the world he had been so cruelly promised.

"Sweet… child of Kos…" he whispered, before his head lulled.

* * *

The hunters that had been absent from the beach were disbelieving at first of the accounts given by the survivors, but after taking a look for themselves at the cluster of bodies that lay upon the shore, being slowly carried out to sea by the tides, their scepticism was quickly silenced.

The walk home was a long and quiet one. Gehrman, who travelled only with the assistance of two of his colleagues, saw Logarius at a distance, carrying his bloodied wheel upon his back. His face was mostly-clouded by ash, but what remained visible was stricken with sorrow. Many of the other hunters seemed unfazed by the slaughter of the hamlet's inhabitants, seeing it as justice, but those who saw past this veil of the truth were similarly mournful.

Laurence walked slowly to keep level with his exhausted colleagues, carrying in his arms the blood-sodden and meaty umbilical cord that had been severed from the Orphan's corpse. After he had emerged from his hiding spot, he had ordered its retrieval.

"It could prove useful to us," he had claimed, much to the apathy of his fellow scholars.

Maria held back, desperately trying to avoid Gehrman's gaze. There was no visible disdain toward her in the older man's face, but she still felt his despair over her actions pressing down on her – the experience was what Maria imagined it must be like to carry the world on one's shoulders.

As the sun started to dip beyond the horizon, grey clouds forcefully rolled in, covering the evening sky like a battalion. A clap of thunder soon followed, succeeded by a literal opening of the heavens as buckets of misty blue pelted down onto the travelling hunters. As Gehrman stopped to pull up his hood, he took one last look back in the direction of the hamlet. The last embers were dying away in the rain, and the smoke that had once billowed magnificently from the ruined town was almost-entirely dissipated.

In the direction of the beach, whereupon the corpses of Kos and her orphaned child lay, a fierce bolt of lightning dropped, briefly illuminating the whole coastline. For just a fleeting moment, the booming sound seemed to be shadowed by another – much softer, yet still faintly audible.

A sob.

Gehrman closed his eyes, waving his hand across his face as though to ward away the nightmares that were soon to come.

* * *

The breath came to him so suddenly that it was accompanied swiftly by a strangled yelp.

Barkley the Powder Keg, still drenched in his own blood, rose shakily to his feet, and surveyed his surroundings.

 _"_ _There's something wrong with the sun_ ," he whispered to himself, finding his voice hushed, and more ethereal than real.

Indeed, the sun appeared most peculiar. It seemed to be shrouded in darkness, more faded than usual, as though shining through a window. Dark tendrils seemed to emerge from its rim, as though a hand was outstretched for it from behind.

Then, in a flash, the memories came flooding back.

Death. Lots of death.

His death.

Barkley felt for his hip, fingers pressed against the gaping wound that the knife had left him. His parting gift from the world of the living. The flesh was cold, and the blood was freshly wet, but there was no pain.

There was very little… anything. The whole world seemed empty and vacuous.

As Barkley looked about him, he saw other members of his party coming to terms with their surroundings. Their faces were stricken by horror, fear and grief.

It was like something out of a dream.


	9. Bloodline

_"Bunch together a group of people deliberately chosen for strong religious feelings, and you have a practical guarantee of dark morbidities expressed in crime, perversion, and insanity."_ _― H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu_

* * *

 **Chapter Nine: Bloodline**

 _\- Two Years Later -_

"Fear the Old Blood."

The towering stone doors creaked and swung open with a gush of stale air. Caryll wheeled himself back, and then froze. Provost Willem was standing on the other side of the arch, for once pictured without his beloved blindfold. His dark eyes landed on Caryll, and a soft smile slid up his face.

"Good evening, my friend."

"Good evening to you also," Caryll replied. "Master, if I might pry, what brings you out to the forest at this time of night?"

Willem let out a quiet grunt. "Mmm… I can't sleep. Too many ideas whizzing around in that old noggin of mine… I thought the fresh air might do me some good."

"Oh, but you can't go to Yharnam, Master…" Caryll interjected, an uncharacteristic flourish of anxiety in his tone. "It is a night of the hunt. Those death-crazed fiends can scarcely tell friend from foe in the midst of their bloodletting."

"Quite right," Willem replied, nodding. "But I will be fine."

"Master, I hardly think that I-"

"I have you, don't I?"

An uncomfortable silence filled the rift between the pair as the realisation quickly, and sharply hit Caryll.

"Ah… Well, I might have a thing or two to say about-"

"No time for that now my boy," Willem cut in, already walking up the hill behind Caryll. "There is safety in numbers. Come, the night waits for none."

Caryll sighed, and gave chase. Willem started to hum softly as the pair crossed through the gate at the top of the hill that led into Cathedral Ward. The pavilion was bathed in soft white moonlight, and Willem seemed to relax as his purple cloak soaked it up like the backdrop of a starry sky. As the duo passed a small stone statue depicting the insect-like Great One Amygdala, Willem broke his self-imposed meditation rather suddenly, remarking upon a memory of the day just gone.

"The prophet told me something most interesting today, Caryll."

Caryll looked over at Willem, hoping that his eyes would not betray his despair. "The prophet spoke? It has been months."

"The prophet speaks when he deems fit. He is a host of many churning thoughts and ideas, none of which are his own – it is natural that he should be isolated for most of his hours."

"Of course," Caryll nodded. "What did he tell you, Master?"

Willem stuck out his lower lip, pondering the meaning of his own words as they left his lips.

"He has foreseen the coming of a new child of the cosmos."

Caryll's stomach suddenly frothed with unease, and his rolling came to a sharp halt. "You speak true?"

Willem cast him a dark look. "Do I make a habit of divulging lies, Runesmith?"

Caryll's eyelids flickered, and he bowed his head. "Of course not. Accept my apology, master. Only… I could not imagine such a thing… After Ebrietas…. And that thing from the hamlet…"

"And yet, it will be so," Willem replied ominously.

He came to a stop outside a nursery building, and sat down upon a nearby bench. Caryll set himself beside his master. The balcony overlooked a mass of darkened streets below, and from somewhere in the distance, the dulled bangs of gunpowder were audible. Tomorrow, the people of Yharnam that lived in those houses – the ones that were not stricken with plague or cut down in the carnage of the crossfire - would wake up to a river of blood, and the eviscerated, unrecognisable corpses of their former neighbours and friends. Just the thought of such turmoil on a weekly basis was enough to send nausea riveting through Caryll's whole body. He had been wise to cut all ties with the city once the hunts began, but thoughts of family were never far away – only throwing himself into the thrall of a good book or stack of research papers could temporarily focus his ailing mind.

As a guttural roar echoed from a few blocks over, Willem let out a sigh, and took his white blindfold from his coat pocket, wrapping it around his head. Caryll watched, longing not for one of his own but a pair of earplugs so that he might drown out the sounds of slaughter.

"The whole world has gone blind, Caryll," Willem whispered. "They have been blinded by the Healing Church, and Laurence."

"Perhaps that is preferable," Caryll conceded half-heartedly. "There is naught but fire and brimstone left to see."

* * *

The half-gloom, where the light dared not reach.

The ricochet as the metal tumbled down the stone.

The splash.

Thoughts of the well were quickly dissipated as another stretcher was brought before her. Maria quickly pulled on a clean set of surgical gloves, collecting her syringe from its rest, and tied her plague mask.

"Subject's name?" she asked, gesturing to one of her bumbling attendants.

"Arthur Smith," he replied, pretending to scribble on his notes. "He's from Central Yharnam."

"Middle class, eh?" Maria said, before jabbing the man in the side with her syringe. "Seems nobody is immune to the scourge, regardless of where you live."

"I thought that we had ruled out airborne infections long ago, doctor?" the attendant queried.

"We've ruled out everything," Maria shot back. "If only there was something we could rule in."

Arthur Smith started to convulse as the effects of the injection started to take hold. Green mucus ran down his nostrils, his eyes pulsing red. His veins started to protrude from his neck and face, the blood pumping faster as though attempting to free itself from his flesh. His restraints started to quiver, and for a second Maria was convinced that they would not be able to hold the patient down.

Then, he fell still, a deep growl emanating from his throat just seconds before he lost consciousness.

"The infection has spread through his whole body," Maria noted. "First, it crept up his right leg, before burning through his whole lower half, and finally spilling through to his brain."

"Would the application of incense be of any use?" the attendant questioned.

Unseen beneath the table, Maria curled a fist.

"Would the application of your brain be of any use?" she asked. Her voice was soft, but was filled with venom, like a viper sweet-talking its prey.

"Yes, doctor," the attendant muttered, before quickly scurrying off.

Maria sagged, reaching around and stabbing Arthur through his skull with a surgical knife before practically collapsing into the chair that lay by her side. Her distraught gaze landed on the ultimatum stacked neatly upon her desk.

'Find a cure for the plague.'

Laurence had not been quite so direct in his words, but his meaning was nonetheless, crystal clear. Unfortunately, it was easier said than done to find a treatment for a condition that ravaged the human body from the inside out and unleashed its dormant bestial tendency. Simply burning the city to the ground seemed like a more realistic option at this point. There were only so many Arthur Smiths to dissect.

Maria started as a fist was volleyed hard into her door. For a second, her heart lifted, picturing Gehrman crossing the threshold with a roguish smile on his face. Once, it had always been him knocking upon her door, and always with something humorous or insightful to impart.

Not anymore, though.

Instead, it was Ludwig who entered her office, his scholarly face lit up by the maniacal moonlight that had thoroughly consumed him.

"Lady Maria," he greeted. "You needn't look so dismayed. I am not the bringer of bad news today."

"Then have you come to recite more of Laurence's preaching in my face?" Maria asked at the hunter.

"No," Ludwig replied, eyes betraying the hurt he felt at the retort. He distracted himself with a row of blue vials that adorned the wall, and barely paid his colleague any attention. "You know, this really is a beautiful place. I was thinking about it as I rode the elevator. The Astral Clocktower, a place befitting of a truly important cause. The work you do here may yet bring salvation to our town."

Maria sighed. The guilt of snapping at her associate was starting to set in fast, and her stomach felt like churning tar. "That's the hope at least. I hate to be rude, but have you any pressing business? I'm rather busy as of late."

Ludwig's head slowly turned back to face Maria.

"I thought you might be interested in hearing how I plan to honor Gehrman's legacy in my reforms of the Workshop Hunters – excuse me, the _Church_ Hunters – after the... eh, _unfortunate incident_. Forgive me if I am prying too deeply, but I haven't seen you two together since that day at the hamlet…. Your companionship was once a powerful thing. You shouldn't be too hasty to give up on him. Time heals all wounds, after all..."

Maria resisted the temptation to spill her inner agonies. "You said you intend to honor him? How?"

Ludwig smiled, pleased to have caught her interest.

"It has always been my intention to bring back the old customs. Chivalry, honor. The tasks we perform as blades of the church are gruesome, but we needn't be outcasts. The Church Hunters may become an order of knights... righteous warriors... And all inspired by Gehrman, and the nobility that first compelled him to leave the safety of his home, for the benefit of others."

Maria gave a dismissive chuckle. "You sound like a zealot, Ludwig. All this talk of honor and conviction - Gehrman was none of these. He's a flawed human being."

"As are we all," Ludwig nodded. "But I believe that the values of the Healing Church elevate us above our petty human concerns. We fight for a noble cause, to better ourselves and our race. Why can't we hunters be champions? Heroes, in the eys of the people? Were you not raised on stories of heroes? How do you feel about _becoming_ one?"

Maria shook her head. "My upbringing was far from conventional. There were no heroes in my bedtime tales."

Ludwig shrugged. "Forgive me. I have blathered long enough. My guiding moonlight beckons. Farewell, Lady Maria."

As the Holy Blade left her chambers, and the sound of his footfalls softened into the distance, Maria sat quietly at her desk, her thoughts caught in a swirling maelstrom.

Her childhood. It was something she had not thought about in many years – and for good reason.

After nearly half an hour had passed, she drew open her desk, hand feeling inside for the rolled up piece of parchment that she knew was concealed inside. Once she found it, she pulled it out, and started to unfurl it.

* * *

"You needed to see me, sire?" Ludwig asked, standing even more upright than usual as he faced his master.

"Just checking in with you, Ludwig," Laurence replied matter-of-factly, taking off his reading glasses and settling back in his chair. "I assume you have sent the Choir Intelligence to investigate the doings of Mensis?"

"Yes, sire," Ludwig nodded. "Edgar led the party. On account of the reports that locals gave - mass kidnappings and violent altercations in the streets - the group was well-armed."

"Good," Laurence said, stretching out his palms across the desk. "I have lost my faith in Micolash's… _experiments._ Cutting him off from his college of fantasists should resolve the issue."

"From what I'm told, the corruption runs deeper than that, sire."

Ludwig took a seat opposite Laurence. From the intonation of his words, it was clear he was reluctant to part with such information, and Laurence's own expression made it clear that he was reluctant to receive it.

"Old Yharnam's citizens are running amok. On the encouragement of the School of Mensis, they have decided to cut their ties to the Church. They are destroying Church property with abandon – idols, tapestries; even the homes of blood ministers. They have destroyed the supply of old blood in the cathedral, and are refusing to take any more… This is… bad, sire."

"You don't say?" Laurence snapped. Suddenly he didn't seem so content. "And what have you, as Captain of the Hunters, done to rectify this issue?"

Ludwig gulped. "Sire, with all respect, I don't think it is wise to apply force to resolve this issue. If handled incorrectly, we could have civil war on our hands."

"I see," Laurence murmured, mulling over solutions as he took a swig from the red-tinted flagon on his desk. "As I have lost faith in Micolash, his disciples have lost faith in the Church."

Ludwig was about to contribute to the debate when the doors of Laurence's chamber were thrown open, and a duo of enhanced Church giants lumbered inside. Laurence stood up abruptly, scorn lighting up across his cheekbones and brow like a blast of flame. One of the giants held a struggling figure in their powerful grasp, and as Laurence quickly reacted to the proceedings, and the figure was thrown onto the carpeted ground, the vicar quickly recognised them.

"Gehrman," Laurence said disdainfully. "What is the meaning of bringing him here, you towering brutes?"

One of the church giants responded in a slow, emphatic and unintelligent inflection. "He was found during hunt yesterday. When we challenged him what he was doing breaking Ludwig's rules, he attacked several men, and was brought down with a net."

Gehrman got up onto his knees, his wooden peg leg straining underneath the weight of his gangly, yet powerful form. He kept his head low to the ground, refusing either Laurence or Ludwig the dignity of eye contact. Laurence grunted, stepping out from behind his desk towards the exiled hunter.

"I thought we made it very clear to you," Laurence said, tone so cold that he may as well have been breathing icicles. "Your services are no longer required. _You_ are no longer required. We gave you a very generous retirement offer – you should have taken it."

Head remained low, Gehrman retorted. "A hunter must hunt, Laurence."

"You are not a hunter," Laurence spat. "You are a traitor to our cause. You made that very clear."

The ghost of a smile crossed the old hunter's face, as he remembered the ransacking of the Church's private laboratories, and the bounty that he had claimed for moral justice. "Your cause is lost, Laurence. You have become so blinded by beasts that you can no longer tell yourself apart from them."

"You have idea what you're talking about," Laurence growled. "How easily you forget that we started all of this together. None of it would be possible without you! And you talk of me as a monster, when you have shed more blood than I?"

"What would you call these?" Gehrman yelled, indicating the pair of giants that continued to watch him vacantly. "Ordinary men, pumped full of chemicals… You're creating your own beasts!"

Laurence let the hail of malice rain down upon him, barely a flicker of emotion in his empty eyes. Then, he waved a hand at his oversized sentries.

"I've heard enough. Take him into custody."

The giant who had previously spoken again piped up. "Hypogean Gaol?"

"No," Laurence shot back. "Hypogean is compromised – the residents of Old Yharnam would unlock him in an instant if they thought it would be going against the Church's wishes. No, lock him up at the top of the Cathedral Ward."

Gehrman was hoisted off of his feet by the giants, but before he could be hoisted from sight, he called out to Laurence.

"Willem was right about all this, you know. Your ego has blinded you!"

Laurence considered the parting remark for all of two seconds before returning to his seat, and the comfort that the silence would bring.

* * *

Gehrman had seen very little of the Choir since his tenure as a hunter began, but it was a far cry from the old, likely-haunted abandoned property that he and his fellow Byrgenwerth pilgrims had bought all those years ago.

The place was full of arcane researchers – loyal devotees to Laurence and the pursuit of otherworldly knowledge – dressed in white garbs adorned with tassels and gold belts. The way they walked about the halls was near-robotic, and would have been sinister enough on its own if it weren't for the blindfolded caps that they wore over their faces to disguise their identities. Being a part of the Healing Church's upper circle led to a certain amount of suspicion and fear from local townsfolk, who had heard whispers of the mind-warping research that the sect carried out. It was enough to send an ordinary man into a frenzied state, and, as such, for their own safety every Choir member had to remain anonymous. Faceless.

As such, most church ministers dreaded having to pay a visit to the towering fortress, or worse, the day when they would be promoted, sent up the elevator from the old hunter's workshop to join the ranks of the white-robed emissaries.

All except one, that is.

Choir Master Zephyr.

As Gehrman was taken swiftly through the stone foyer of the Upper Cathedral Ward, he caught glimpses of Zephyr's experiments, worked on by huddles of white-cloaked doctors.

A pale grey slug, strapped to a table and prodded with syringes.

A strange, misshapen blue imp, born from a zealous over-indulgence in brain fluid, and said to be able to interpret the alien language of the Great Ones, bashed its mushroom-shaped head against the bars of its cage.

And, lined up in a row just like the old groups from which the Choir got its namesake, a collection of researchers, eyes fixed on the star-strewn skies above and arms posed like the frail arms of a clock; all part of a horribly-misguided attempt to communicate with the cosmos.

Truly a madhouse, run by a madman.

Zephyr came out to greet Gehrman as he was dragged into one of the holding cells normally reserved for the twisted creatures of the night. He was dressed up in his Choir Master attire as usual, and he was practically skipped over to Gehrman's cell, the old hunter was overwhelmed by the man's mania.

"You're very far from home now little sheep," he chuckled, poking a finger through the bars at Gehrman like a child at a zoo. "Where is your flock?"

"Better to be homeless than live in a place like this," Gehrman replied, eyeing the golden pendant that hung around Zephyr's neck. "New trinket?"

Zephyr clutched the treasure between two quivering hands. "My wife is pregnant. A little girl, blessed by the cosmos! I shall make a gift of it to her, as my father once did to me. Ah… what a world to raise a child in."

Gehrman snorted. "You could say that."

"Anyhow old boy, I thought you might be interested in paying your old friend in the dungeons a visit. After all, it was you who brought her to us, and it's been such a long, long time since you two saw each other…"

"I'd rather not," Gehrman said, turning away from the bars.

Zephyr laughed.

"Oh, my poor little lamb… What gave you the impression that you had a choice?"

* * *

It wasn't a long thought process that led Maria out to the barren district of Hemwick that evening. It had been a long time since she had really felt at home anywhere – where the dreams of flame, screaming hamlet children and bottomless wells could not reach her at the darkest hours of the morning.

There was nothing left in Yharnam. Not since Laurence had bundled her off to the Clocktower in the hopes of burying her and the guilt with which she was associated.

Not since Gehrman had lost the willpower to so much as look at her, let alone shower her with his gruff adoration.

The road ahead would be treacherous at this time of year, but that was why she had decided to take a carriage. Soon enough, the autumnal-hued leaves and ankle-deep mud of Hemwick's grassy banks was replaced with the hard and icy gravel of the Great Crossing. The tall spires of Yharnam slowly receding into the darkness of the night, Maria allowed her eyes to flutter, her sleep-deprived mind at ease with the gentle clopping of hooves on pavement.

She awoke soon enough, as the air in the carriage grew bitterly cold, and the grey wisps of her own breath filled the enclosed space. Tugging her coat closer to her shaking body, she raised her hood and prepared for the tundra to bring its worst. The outsides of the carriage started to frost over, and in time, little icicles protruded through the spaces in the open window. The wind picked up outside, starting from a feeble cry and rising to a feral wail, battering the outsides of the carriage and slowing the horse to a near-freeze.

Just when the conditions were more than Maria could endure, the carriage came to a halt. Fearing the worst, she threw open the carriage doors, expecting to find her steed collapsed in the snow. Instead, she found herself in the shadow of an enormous gate, turrets and flags taller than oak trees jutting out into the night. Across the icy plane that led up to the castle, a pair of armoured guards took notice of her arrival, and approached the carriage cautiously, swords thinner than bones at their side and ready at all times in the event of attack.

"Halt," one of them called, raising a burning wick to the freezing night air to illuminate the Maria's approaching form. "State your business."

Maria stepped into the full reach of the torch's light, and the guard stopped, dropping to one knee. His partner almost immediately mirrored the gesture, both men dropping their weapons in the snow.

"Forgive me, your highness," the first guard said softly. "If I had known you were coming…"

"It's not important," Maria assured him, voice quiet and more isolated than the glacial grounds of the castle spread out as far as the eye could see. "I have been long away, but I have returned. Will you let the King and Queen know?"

"Of course, my lady," the guard replied, standing up straight and outstretching a gauntleted hand for Maria to take.

"And, may I be the first to say...welcome back to Cainhurst."


	10. Heir

**A/N: On the advice of a good friend of mine, the talented Leider Hosen, I have gone back through my older chapters and written numerous dramatic revisions to the character of Ludwig, which bring him much closer to resembling his game counterpart. So, if it seems as though this Ludwig has arrived from a parallel universe... that's because he has! I feel that making these revisions has been extremely beneficial to the story - and for this, I must completely credit Hosen. He is an extremely talented writer, so if you've never read any of his fictions, I give him my strongest recommendation.**

* * *

 **Chapter Ten: Heir**

The giant steel gates of Cainhurst Castle eased open, the hinges groaning deeply as the aged steel parted. A shower of splintering ice followed suit as several perching icicles were minced by the movement of the metal. A gush of cold air greeted the faces of the guards that were accompanying Maria, but neither of them so much as flinched. In fact, they seemed completely unfazed by the cold, quite unlike Maria, whose quivering flesh did not go unnoticed.

"Would you like my coat, m'lady?" one of the pair asked, offering his robe.

"I'm alright, thank you," Maria replied, somewhat timidly.

The guard beamed. "That Cainhurst blood of yours should warm you up quickly enough."

The gates opened out into a massive stone courtyard blanketed by thick snow. As their boots crunched upon the icy ground, Maria took the time to examine her surroundings. Twenty years is a long time, but there are some memories which you can never quite shift, and as Maria looked up at the towering Gothic spires of her old home, and the iron railings which bound them all together like veins, a familiarity started to set in.

"This way," one of the guards indicated, raising his wick to illuminate a winding, frost-covered path that led towards a large stone keep.

Cainhurst's main foyer was a hive of activity, drone-like servants of the royal family scrubbing at the floor so vigorously and relentlessly that it seemed like they might wear away the tiles. A few of them glanced up when Maria was escorted through the hall but were not distracted from their work for long enough to earn a scowl from the prowling noblemen that also haunted the corridors. Maria's modest dress was a stark contrast to the pompous attire adorning such nobles, and a few of them gave her disdainful looks as they passed.

Eventually, the two guards led Maria to a locked door, and gestured for her to wait.

"This will only take a second, m'lady," they insisted, before knocking gently upon the archaic wood.

The doors creaked open, absorbing the two guards. Before they were shut again, Maria heard the sound of grating metal and frantic yelling, but the two guards frustratingly blocked her vision. Once the doors closed, emptiness settled in once more, and the former hunter was left alone in the cold, dimly-lit corridor.

Queen Annalise sat up in her chair, wicked smile slowly starting to dip at the edges of her mouth as she saw two of her guards walking towards her across the throne room. The pair paused as the action at the centre of the room – two duelling Cainshurst warriors – reached a climax, with one of the pair knocking his opponent's blade away with his own. As his bested foe reeled back the victor, whose gear was identical to his opponents aside from the black crow feathers adorning his chest piece, grabbed him by the throat. The flailing knight struggled to no avail as his triumphant opponent yanked him forwards, and thrust his blade straight through his guts. Agonised, the knight let out a feeble cry, his voice muffled by the tide of blood rising to his mouth. Soon after, he fell still.

The victorious knight let his opponent fall onto the ground, before tearing off the man's ghoulish iron mask, and replacing it on his own head. As the Queen looked on at her champion, he raised his arms into the air, shuddering as though his body were overtaken with some kind of primal pleasure.

"Congratulations," Annalise called. "You have won yet again."

The knight let his arms fall to his sides, before tearing off his mask and letting his long, silver hair fall to the side.

"All for your favour, my queen," he said softly.

Annalise chuckled – a dry, icy sound that sent chills through the assembled members of the nobility. "Sometimes I wish you'd act more like a king, Victyr. But most times, I enjoy your dull obedience. Come - be seated. It seems we have matters to attend to."

Victyr nodded earnestly, like a puppy who knew that he had been good enough to earn a treat. Still soaked through with the blood of his fallen comrade, he took the seat next to Annalise. The two guards stepped forward, and gazed up at their king and queen reverently.

"Your highnesses," one spoke. "We have an unexpected arrival. Lady Maria, heir to the Frigid Keep, has returned to Cainhurst."

A gasp rippled through the court nobles as they heard a name lost to them by nearly-twenty years, followed swiftly by an impassioned chatter as they haplessly tried to recall the old bloodline, and its importance to the nobility today. However, one hard glare from the Queen was enough to silence the crowd almost instantaneously. Satisfied with the calm, Annalise stood up from her chair, with Victyr quickly following suit.

"I have not heard that name in many years," she whispered, hand to her cheek and eyes gazing out as though lost in memory. "But it is a name that still holds significance in this court. Bring her to me. There is much to discuss."

The two guards fell onto one knee, arms outstretched. As they rose again, Annalise called out to one of the servants scrubbing the walls.

"Get that cleaned up," she hissed, long bony finger outstretched towards the bloodied corpse in the centre of the room.

* * *

Zephyr led Gehrman through the rafters of the Grand Cathedral until they reached a gloomy, darkened chasm built into the back wall. With both hands, the Choir Master pulled the ornate lever that activated the elevator, and stood back as a deep, resonant rumble from the depths brought the machinery to life.

The old hunter had remained silent throughout the trip, hardly enthused by the prospect of what was to come. But, as the elevator drew into sight, and the Choir Master pushed him onto its stone pedestal, liquid fear started to pump through his veins, and he felt his battle-worn fingers trembling in his coat pockets.

Sensing his prisoner's unease, Zephyr grinned manically.

"Think of it like a homecoming," he smiled. "Without you, none of this would be possible. You see what we have accomplished; now remember where all of that came from!"

Gehrman bit his lip to stop coarse and vulgar insults from flying loose. The ground beneath his feet began to shift, and as the elevator began its hellish descent through the depths of the cathedral, the hunter shut his eyes, and tried to block out the world. The movement strained upon his wooden leg, and he grimaced as it started to rub against his flesh. As they travelled deeper underground, Gehrman's breaths became shorter, and the dizziness that swam in his head swarmed through the rest of his body. He felt as though taking one step would be enough to make him vomit.

Then, the elevator stopped, and Zephyr's hands were pushing him forward once more.

"This is our stop," he said, guiding the enfeebled hunter through an opening in the cavern, leading them into a room bathed in a luminous blue and white hue. In the corner, a hulk of metal tied down with multiple metal chains caught Gehrman's attention. As Zephyr forced him onto the ground, locking him with a set of handcuffs, the metal writhed, and the sinking sensation flooding the hunter's stomach finally hit the ground.

"I'll leave you two alone," Zephyr derided, heading back towards the elevator, and leaving the chained hunter – and his chained prey – alone.

A soft, low groan filled the enclosed space of the cavern. As Gehrman rose to his feet shakily, burdened by the loss of his hands, and gazed upon the monster of his own making, he realised that the sound had in fact come from his own lips.

Ebrietas was unrecognisable from the cosmic entity that Byrgenwerth had encountered all those years ago. She was akin to a prisoner of war – and, in a way, she was – with her bloodstained and bruised flesh indicating that she had been tortured multiple times. Scars dotted across almost every patch of visible skin indicated where she had been bled. Gehrman was never made completely aware of what the exsanguination process involved, but seeing how precise the incisions had been made – always deep enough to provide large amounts of blood but never so much as to kill her, and render their source barren – he was reminded of the milking process of a cow. Only, this was something out of a nightmare – a nightmare that he had contributed to bringing into being.

The chained Great One made no attempt to communicate with Gehrman. Seeing what she had been through, it was a likely possibility that the trauma had left her completely muted. That, or Ebrietas was so used to human visitors that such an occurrence was simply ignored.

In any case, Gehrman was glad. Any attention from the pitiful creature would make the experience a thousand times worse.

After a while, his legs buckled, and he found himself sprawled on the ground, looking up at the ceiling. With the looming stalactites as his witness, Gehrman pictured the fiery embers of hell swirling around him, magma searing at his clothes until they were but tatters and then consuming his flesh and bone. Such punishment was only the threshold of what he deserved.

His actions all of those years ago had turned Yharnam into a living hell. So, in some way, perhaps his recompense had already begun.

* * *

Ludwig took a deep breath, letting the cold night air fill him up. In the sky above, the moon shone in earnest, its white rays sending down their blessings upon him and the work of his Church Hunters. Across the way, a giant hairy beast let out a wailing scream, and fell to its knees with a heavy thud. In moments, Ludwig's hunters were upon it, hacking off its limbs and eventually its head, spilling buckets of blood onto Yharnam's rain-spattered cobble streets. The creature, which had once been a man, was one of hundreds of beasts that had been put to rest that night in the name of purity.

"Good work, men," Ludwig cried, raising his sword aloft in triumph. "I feel that every night we come one step closer to bringing peace to our city, and ending this abhorrent plague."

"If you say so," one of the hunters shot back. Ludwig sighed.

"I see that some of you are still not satisfied with my leadership," he said, a heavy sadness inflecting his words. "What do I have to do to prove myself? Must I fell a Great One to earn your approval?"

His Church Hunters gave him no reply, which only agitated him more.

"Do you not believe in the old ways as I do?" he cried desperately. "We are knights in all-but name, bringing safety and security to our beloved land! Being a part of this – does it not fill you with pride?"

"…Help… me…"

Ludwig froze. The attention of his hunters was fixed upon something that he couldn't see – something in the corner of his eye. The Holy Blade pivoted, trying to ascertain the origin of their distraction.

He found it very quickly.

From one of the adjoining alleyways, a man was limping towards the party. Both of his hands, soaked in blood and green pus, were clutched to his throat, as though he were choking. To an outsider, he would have been quickly identified as a plague sufferer, and put down without mercy. Only, every one of the hunters on that darkened street corner knew what a plague victim looked like –and this man was not it. He was something else entirely – an uncertainty.

A cause for fear.

"What ails you, stranger?" Ludwig called. The man did not respond, but continued to slide across the cobbles towards the party, panting heavily all-the-while.

One of the Church Hunters stepped forward, his Kirkhammer raised against his shoulder blade. "Get back."

The hunter edged towards the oncoming man, fingers itching on his hammer. Ludwig watched, too fascinated by the situation to take any other action.

As the two came face-to-face, the hunter took his Kirkhammer in both hands, readying a swing. Just before he could take it however, the limping man opened his mouth wide, and an explosion of blackened blood burst out from his throat, as though water had broken through the walls of a dam. The sheer force of the eruption tore away at the sides of the man's flesh, leaving a gaping black hole where his face had been. The hunter, too close to the man to have evaded, was covered in the blood, and instantly recoiled, coughing and spluttering frenetically. Having passed on the infection, the man dropped lifelessly to the ground like a ragdoll, the remains of his face breaking apart on the stone cobbles.

The effect on the Church Hunters was comparable to anarchy. Most of them turned tail and ran almost immediately, and those who stayed, either opting to or because they were rooted to the ground by fear/nausea, went rigid, some retching loudly into the gutter.

Ludwig himself was too stunned to move. His eyes were fixed on the stricken hunter, who had collapsed onto his knees, and had both hands tightly pressed to his eyes, screaming. The veins in his neck were starting to burn a bright red - this was all Ludwig needed to see. With trembling hands, the Holy Blade raised his sword, and swung forwards.

* * *

"The doctors have started referring to it as ashen blood."

Laurence took a swig from his hipflask, leaving a trail of red around the corners of his mouth. If the situation at-hand was giving him any anxiety, he was not giving it away.

Ludwig, on the other hand, could not conceal his petrification. All-the-while he talked, his fingers trembled. It had been four days, but he still could not get the horrific images out of his mind – it seemed that they were forever etched there.

"Do they know anything else about it?" Laurence asked.

Ludwig swallowed. "It doesn't seem to be related to the… beastly contagion, sire. In fact, it is more closely comparable to the old, medieval blights. The Black Plague….Influenza….Tubercolosis…Perhaps, this gives us a better hope of finding a cure for this thing…"

"We already have one," Laurence replied. "We have always had one. Have there been any reported cases in Central Yharnam or the Cathedral Ward?"

"No, sire…"

Laurence folded his hands neatly on the table. "Then there is only one solution available to the people of Old Yharnam. They must return to the Church."

* * *

Maria walked down the carpeted aisle of the throne room, eyes fixed upon the seated King and Queen that lay at the chamber's end. From a distance, their expressions were not visible, but even so, there was a frightful aura emanating from the entire room. The assembly of noble men and women that lined the walls followed her with cautious eyes. Maria could practically feel their tension, like a knot of rope straining against a large exertion of force. When she was but ten feet from the royals, she stopped, and dropped to one knee before them.

"Your graces," she said, head bowed. "I have been long away, but I return to you now, and beg for your absolution."

Quiet followed, before it was suddenly shattered by a long, drawn-out cackle. Queen Annalise seemed so tickled that she might fall off of her chair, her mouth drawn apart further than the chasm leading to hell. Finally, she stopped, and spoke.

"Absolution? My dear, you have committed no crime by leaving this place, and your return brings us nothing but joy. Please, rise. There is no need for a fellow royal to bend the knee."

Maria flushed red, clambering to her feet sheepishly. "Thank you, my queen."

Annalise nodded curtly. "You have grown so very much! You are the spitting image of your mother – is she not, Victyr?"

Victyr, who had not taken the time to clean his armour before meeting his long-lost relation, gave a slow head tilt. "Indeed. Your hair is most blonde."

Annalise snorted. "Is that all you have to say, Victyr? Why, the resemblance is uncanny! If it were not for those blue eyes, I would have mistaken you for my sister in a halfbeat."

The Queen looked her niece up and down, before narrowing her eyes slightly, noticing Maria's foreign dress.

"It seems that your time away has humbled your sense of pride," she noted. "Victyr, fetch me a set of robes. Maria is a royal – and she should be dressed like one."

The king rose heavily from his chair, heading towards the door. As he passed Maria, he stopped briefly, green-hued eyes absorbing her image with unnerving enthusiasm. He reached out with a gloved hand and grasped a lock of Maria's hair, examining it with a peculiar tenderness before dropping it, and continuing on his way. The encounter left Maria slightly uneasy, but her welcome had but nothing less than pleasant, and, at the offer of a goblet of fine red wine, was quickly forgotten.

Once the court had dispersed, leaving Maria, Annalise and her squadron of cleaners to their privacy, the Queen of Cainhurst turned to Maria, an inquisitive urge overcoming her.

"I hate to pry, but what brings you here, now of all times?" she asked.

Maria's gaze fell, as she quickly realised it was not a question that she prepared for, despite its inevitability.

"To be truthful, I am not completely certain," she confessed. "I have been missing a purpose for a long while now. A place where I could belong. Some notion... in me… persuaded me that that purpose may lie here…"

Annalise's stare intensified, the Queen's opal-hued peepers boring into Maria like a prospector looking for a trove of gold.

"That would be your Cainhurst blood, my child. It has a fascinating longing for its birthplace. By coincidence or no, it always seems to bring its people home."

Victyr returned, clutching a bundle of ornate black robes. Swathed with white tassels and pearly buttons, the garbs were distantly familiar, lighting a wick of recognition somewhere deep in Maria's mind. When she placed a hand upon their soft, silken textures, the sensation intensified, and images of snow, flame and stone castle walls rushed through her in a whirlwind, nearly overcoming her senses.

When she emerged, shaken but enlightened, she noticed Annalise smiling knowingly.

"Cainhurst never forgets its children," she said, soft but direct.

"Come, I will take you to your quarters," Victyr said. "They have been unoccupied since the day you left, but our servants have kept it pristine, for the day that you would return."

Maria looked over at Annalise. As if possessing some kind of sixth sense of her family, the Queen nodded.

"No need, Victyr. I will accompany our niece. You should see to your knights. The arrival of Lady Maria is a cause for celebration – I feel that a tournament is in order."

Victyr's gaze shifted, darkening slightly and fleetingly, as though a shadow had crossed the sun. "Of course, my queen," he cooed.

Annalise, accompanied by a set of guards not unlike the two who had greeted Maria hours before, led their new arrival through a set of winding corridors, and then up a contorted tower staircase. The spiralling walkway seemed to persist for eternity, but when the dizziness was more than Maria could bare, she suddenly emerged onto an empty landing, characterised only by a small wooden door, and a fearsome bat motif fixed upon the adjoining wall.

"This was once your mothers," Annalise explained. "I am quite certain that seeing the room will stir some memories."

The old wooden door creaked open at the touch. The guard detail bowed their heads at Annalise, taking positions on either side of the entrance, and going so still as to resemble statues not unlike those that littered the grounds outside.

"Come," Annalise gestured, offering a thin, pale hand to Maria. The fingers were cold to the touch, but the Queen's impassioned energy quickly soothed the former hunter, nullifying the queasy anxiety that had bubbled up inside of her with every step.

The room was grandiose, with regal, wooden furniture so polished and clean that they seemed to actually glimmer. A carpet made of elk hide lay in the centre of the room, illuminated by a trio of flaming sconces that hung upon the wall, grasped by aged stone fists bearing into the wall. The four-poster bed sat against the back wall was blindingly red, gold-rimmed pillows and mattress providing the only contrast of colour in the entire corner. A pair of crimson curtains hung over a snow-coated window overlooking the entire castle, including a turret running parallel to Maria's own, a giant, spear-like structure that jutted upwards defiantly, as though attempting to pierce the very sky.

Maria froze, her breath caught in her throat.

The room was a living, breathing memory. A childhood of joyous playing by the oak-wrought fireplace rushed back in an instant. Fond memories of bouncing on top of the ornate bed flittered through her vision like the dazzling orange tips of bustling fireflies. Overcome, Maria found herself falling to her knees, the velvety carpet cushioning her fall, and Annalise rushed to her side, bony fingers coming gently to rest upon her shoulder.

"Welcome home," she whispered.

* * *

Ludwig watched, a numbness setting in through his moonlight-enhanced body as the great wooden gates leading into the province of Old Yharnam were closed and bound up with metal chains. Even from behind the towering behemoths, Ludwig could hear the coughing and wheezing of townspeople infected with the odious ashen blood desperately lurching towards their only means of escape - to no avail. Just the very thought of such a wretched image was nauseating - the Holy Blade tried hard to burn away such corrupting visages.

"Old Yharnam is now under strict quarantine," Laurence announced, standing close by with his face a blank, unreadable slate. "Until further notice, no representative of the Church is to enter these walls - hunt, or nay."

The gathering of Church acolytes nodded their approval and understanding, some of them even casting handfuls of lumenflower petals against the closed doors as a declaration of their sympathies. Ludwig's eyes traced the flower petals as they drifted through the air, coming to rest on the damp stone floor.

"This has to end soon," he whispered, eyes closing as the cacophony of suffering across the wall grew to an unbearable climax.

"It will," Laurence replied. "One way or another."

* * *

The warm glow of the fire was a great consolation to Maria, who was yet to acclimatise to the frigid temperatures Cainhurst had to offer. It had been difficult to relax in a room that held so many memories of her past, but once Annalise had stoked the flames in the hearth, she had slowly settled into her chair, letting the waves of heat radiate across the room and over her body. With another glass of wine now resting peacefully in her belly, with the promise of a hearty feast to follow come evening, the former hunter was starting to fall into the throes of comfort – a comfort she had not felt in many years, since the plague and the hunts had begun.

Annalise was pleased that she had settled into her old home so quickly. The Queen was rarely pictured with a smile that did not come from the shedding of blood in a gladiatorial arena, but this was one of those few occasions. For a long while, she just sat in the chair opposite Maria, enjoying the silence that hung between them. The source of the grin that clung to her face like cement was a mystery, and it seemed that she was lost in a haze of excited thoughts, none of which she was tempted to share – at least, not until the appropriate time.

But, that time did come. Day turned to night outside of Maria's frost-encased window pane, and the flurries of snow dancing about grew invisible in the absence of light. Annalise leant forwards in her chair, gazed at the grandfather clock that stood sturdily against the wall, and glanced over at Maria.

"I had a feeling when you arrived that you would bring with you a great prosperity to my people. Your absence has left us cold, but your return could light us up again. Do you feel the same way?"

Light-headed and euphoric, Annalise's words mostly washed over Maria – nevertheless, she could recognise praise, and receiving it now put a smile on her lips.

"Yes," she replied. "I do."

"Good," Annalise said, rocking in her chair. "You may repay the kindness of our people with a kindness of your own. I need you to do something for me."

"What's that?" Maria asked dreamily.

"Your old home, Yharnam, is home to a miracle of the modern age. A gift from the Gods. I want you to bring it to me."

Suddenly, Maria's daze dissipated, and, startled, she flung herself out of her seat.

"How do you know about me?" she cried. "I just got here, after being away for twenty years!"

Annalise smiled. "You are a member of the Cainhurst Royal Family. Of course we were keeping watch over you."

Maria started to back away from the warmth of the fire, feeling its comforting touch fade away, and a cold dread in its place.

"I can't do that," she whispered. "The Church are my allies. I have friends there."

"If you truly believed that, you wouldn't be here," Annalise jabbed. The amiability in her tone was now completely gone, replaced by a chilling, clinical efficiency. "You feel isolated from them; from your friend, Gehrman."

Maria felt the blow land straight in her gut, the red wine in her belly freezing over. "Don't say his name…."

"They hurt you, Maria," Annalise said calmly. "They made you feel cold inside. But that doesn't have to be a bad thing. Having emotions is a fatal flaw – I can show you just how better off you are without them… If you do as I ask."

Maria felt her body sag. The door to the corridor outside, which she had pulled half-open, slipped from her fingers, closing with a gust of cold air.

Annalise beamed, seeing the resistance leaving her young niece. "Gehrman has cast you out, but I can show you how to get him back on your side. Make him your plaything. Just like Victyr."

Maria swallowed hard, remembering how the King had fondled her hair, almost dumbstruck by it. "What's wrong with him?"

Annalise's startling gaze deepened, her slouched figure stiffening like a body of ice. "After your father died, your mother became lonely. Victyr, unhappy in his own marriage, and smitten with your mother, used this as a means to his own loathsome ends."

A shudder ran down Maria's spine.

"Of course, once I found out I made sure to punish him," Annalise smirked. "I never loved the fool, but seeing his loyalty falter like that was… discouraging. Now the old dog fights for my favour at every turn. Such is the proper place of all men."

Standing up from her chair, Annalise approached Maria tentatively, taking her hands and squeezing them fondly. The former hunter gazed up at her aunt, confliction in her big blue eyes.

"Together, we can bring ruin to this world, and rule over the remains. Everything you ever wanted can be yours. And the price is so very low. Think about, won't you my dear? I will see you at dinner tonight."

And with that, the Queen was gone, a trail of cold air in her wake. Maria stood by the open door for a long while, as the snowfall outside accelerated into a great blizzard, pellets of ice crashing against her window.


	11. Yharnam Lullaby

**Chapter Eleven: Yharnam Lullaby**

Inside the great metal cell, the man – a proud member of the Choir Intelligentsia – had resorted to sobbing, forming pathetic pleas in an attempt to reason with his captors. He had advanced past the stage where throwing vile insults and disparagements at the men outside of his prison had seemed to be the best outlet for his suffering. Indeed, he almost seemed willing to renounce his belief in the Church, his blindfold cap now lying by his feet where the repeated electrocutions and subsequent body convulsions had knocked it. Not even his faith in the compassion of the Great Ones he worshipped so reverently was enough to prevent his reduction to a snivelling wreck.

His captors were not softened by the man's cries. One of them, who wore the jet-black robes and demonic, ironclad hood of Yahar'gul's upper echelons, actually seemed to be enthralled by the demeaning treatment of his enemy. The party of Choir Intelligentsia who had descended upon Yahar'gul had, after all, slain several of his men in the ensuing battle, and despite being eventually overcome, left an ugly mark on all those who had fought to protect Mensis and the village.

"Dear, oh dear." The interrogator taunted his prisoner, slowly edging around the perimeter of the cage. "I do hope you aren't breaking down just yet… You have so much more to offer…"

The prisoner let out a wracking sob, and a globule of his own blood hit the cold stone pave at his feet. "I don't know anything…. Please, just let me die…"

"On the contrary, you have information that would be most useful to us," the man retorted. "Once you part with it, I'm more than happy to grant you your death."

"What is it… you think I can tell you…?"

The interrogator stopped pacing, and gripped the metal bars with his gauntlets, face glowering in the half-light.

"The location of the umbilical cord taken from Kos' infant child - Mensis is very interested in the possibilities that such an artefact may possess."

"Not…possible…" the prisoner stuttered. "The cord was stolen…. Taken from under our noses, and divided into three pieces…"

"Where are they?" the interrogator boomed. The prisoner simply shook his head, tears rolling down his seared flesh. "Then who took them?"

"It was Gehrman…" the prisoner howled. "He betrayed us!"

"Gehrman?"

The interrogator's hooded head snapped round, irritation spreading across what little of his face was visible beneath his helm.

"Did I ask for your interruption?" he growled, addressing the one who had spoken – the man controlling the electric currents.

Archibald, who had been happy to remain silent up until the mention of his old compatriot, swiftly became vocal in his confusion. "Why would Gehrman turn on the Church? That is… shocking."

"I don't care who did what or for whatever reason!" the interrogator spat. "I want that cord, and if you don't stay out of it, I'll have you in that chair!"

"Now now, quiet down."

The interrogator stopped dead in the middle of his rant as an inhumanely-tall figure loomed out of the darkness. "Master… I…"

Micolash stepped from the shadows, the elongated metal cage atop his head clanking as he bowed beneath the doorway.

"There's really no need for shouting. The School of Mensis does not allow in-fighting – we are united; something that fool Laurence will never understand."

The interrogator stepped aside as Micolash approached the cell, casting Archibald an apologetic smile.

"You'll forgive my friend over there. He gets a little too excited by the prospect of torture…. A most unsightly trait…"

Archibald shrugged. "I have no quarrel."

"Good," Micolash grinned. "Because you and I – and that assistant of yours, Paarl – have great work to accomplish together."

Turning back to the prison cell, Micolash's eyes met with those of the bound Choir member.

"This really would be easier if you just talked," he professed.

"I've… told you... everything I know…" the prisoner breathed. "Please… kill me."

Micolash nodded, an eerie understanding passing between the two. "As you wish."

With a subtle hand gesture and a wink, Archibald accepted the orders of his master and turned the dial up on the electrolysis machine. The Choir member screeched for a few seconds as his body was flooded with an incomprehensible amount of electricity, before slumping in the chair, smoke rising from his singed clothes.

"He could have told us more," the interrogator said, trying to keep his calm, lest he provoke his master's ire again.

"Possibly, but that's not the point," Micolash replied. "He told us everything we needed to know. Now, we have a mission."

The interrogator curled his fist in anticipation, an odious grin parting his lips.

"Find Gehrman."

* * *

Just as the First Vicar had predicted, it wasn't long before the people of Old Yharnam swiftly turned heel, begging for the relief of the Old Blood. The ashen plague had spread like wildfire, claiming more lives for the reaper than the beastly scourge, medical incompetence and complications in pregnancies put together. Bodies became more common than chimney stacks in the festering ghettos of Old Yharnam, and quickly replaced the industrial scent that the once-bustling district had produced so earnestly.

Laurence decided to appear in person atop a parapet overlooking the gates of Old Yharnam – which were to remain sealed for the indefinite future. With a pair of white-clad Church doctors at his side, the vicar gave a rousing speech to the surviving masses.

"In this time of division – this time of fear, it is crucial that we remain united in our efforts to stem the plague that haunts our streets. The Healing Church has never shied away from our ambitions, and we remain firm in our convictions. We will find a cure for the plague, and any plague that may follow. People of Old Yharnam, we welcome you back into our congregation with open arms, and hope that our supplies reverse this most terrible escalation of events. Our prayers are with you."

No applause followed, but this was more because the ravaged denizens of Old Yharnam barely had the strength left to raise their arms, let alone clap their hands. But, for the first time in many a week, there was hope in their crestfallen faces. Even the fits of coughing amongst members of the crowd seemed to be hushed, as some kind of gesture of appreciation.

Ludwig met Laurence as he climbed down from his stage. The Holy Blade was far from relieved at the state of affairs, but there was a deep respect in his shimmering emerald eyes as they landed upon the vicar.

"Wonderful speech, sire," he said. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

Laurence nodded. "I leave the rest in your hands, Ludwig. Keep an eye on things. The loyalty of your men will yet be needed."

Ludwig's gaze fell. "I fear that might be a problem, sire. The Church Hunters are yet to see me in the same light as you. They see me as a subordinate to Gehrman – why, one of them even named me "a degenerate" in a whisper to a fellow hunter."

"What do you want me to do, Ludwig?" Laurence sighed. "These men revere Gehrman, in spite of his crimes against the Church. Any form of public dethronement we attempt will backfire horrifically."

Ludwig cursed silently, and a shadow crossed his features. "And… I assume killing him is out of the question?"

Laurence looked him hard in the eyes, before giving an enthused chuckle.

"Why, I didn't think you had that sort of thing in you, Ludwig," he said.

"Normally no," Ludwig replied. "The idea of an orchestrated murder – of a founding member no less - sickens me to my stomach. But the man is a false idol. Whilst he lives the Church Hunters will follow a flawed code. Their resolve is misled. Only with him out of the picture can I truly begin to reshape them – put them on the path to righteousness."

Laurence smiled, almost admiring his pupil's determination. "Unfortunately, that is out of the question too. It would be better to let him rot in jail, let the people forget him."

Ludwig let out a long, sorrowful breath.

"Since when did the world become such a morbid place?" he asked.

Laurence patted the Holy Blade on the shoulder.

"We have always lived in darkness. But, we must remember, it is us who cast light upon this sorrowful world. Yharnam needs something to look up to."

"Of course," Ludwig nodded. "My belief in the Church is unfaltering, sire. I need only look at Old Yharnam and see what good it has brought into this world."

Laurence beamed. "Wise words. You may yet make a knight of valour."

Ludwig's heavy heart seemed to rise a little off the ground, like a lead weight attached to a platoon of hot air balloons. As Laurence continued on his way, the Holy Blade looked back at the chained gates of Old Yharnam, and smiled.

There was hope for his city yet.

* * *

Night fell.

Upper Cathedral Ward was like a beacon in the darkness, the heavy yellow gleam of its windows striking up and outwards into the sky. Even from the edge of the forests, its decadent light was visible.

The two black-garbed Church Hunters standing watch over the gates were surprised when a trio of Choir Intelligence arrived at the door, as it was uncommon for any of their number to be observed outside of their quarters during evening time. As Zephyr so boldly claimed, midnight was the most productive hour, when the mind may be awoken from its slumber, and unleash the full potential of one's imagination.

"Evening," they greeted, remaining slack as the first of the Choir Intelligence reached their position. "What brings you out here so late?"

The leading scholar tipped his hat to the hunters. "We find solace in a nightly stroll. There is nothing to distract us. It is a time for great understanding."

"Just unusual is all," the hunter noted. "Go right ahead."

The two hunters parted, and pushed the gate open. The scholar nodded his appreciation, stepping in close. "Thank you, good hunters. Your work is always appreciated in this city."

Before either hunter could react, the scholar had unsheathed his mace, and swung it around at the first guard's head. The blunted dome of the Tonitrus smashed through the hapless hunter's jaw, splitting it open and sending him flailing to the ground in a shower of blood. As his partner unsheathed his saw blade, another of the Choir Intelligence drew a pistol and blasted him straight between the eyes. The wail of the firearm echoed throughout the night. Any other day, such a sound would not go ignored.

But a night of the hunt wasn't any other day.

With both guardsmen dead, the false Choir Intelligentsia continued their trajectory towards Upper Cathedral Ward. So far it had been easy – for such a treasured pillar of the Church, it was not particularly well-guarded. Perhaps Laurence had not anticipated an uprising of such a scale.

At the top of the stairwell, a scythe-wielding Church acolyte stepped into their path.

"Did you hear those gunshots?" he asked, sounding deeply frightened from underneath the plague mask he wore over his face. "They sounded close-by."

"No." The leading scholar replied, shortly before taking out his blunderbuss and blowing a hole through the acolyte's forehead.

From there, it was a brisk walk up to the front door, and with no further resistance, the scholars of Mensis shrugged off their Choir garbs, tossing them to the ground with unconcealed disdain. No doubt there would be resistance from the real Choir, but the majority of the scholars were scientists and doctors – not fighters.

Slaughtering them would be trivial.

Just as they were about to force the doors open, a voice called out from the darkness.

"You're late."

The lead Mensis scholar turned to face the figure cloaked in shadow. "I didn't expect that you would actually be here."

Under the watchful eye of his beloved moon, Ludwig stepped forth, the darkness releasing its wispy grip around his flesh.

"Business conducted under the cover of darkness gives me no pleasure," Ludwig conceited. "And this is a most grave undertaking, indeed. But you and I both have something to gain from this. Nothing more. My loyalty will always lie with Laurence and the Church."

"As you wish," the scholar scowled. "Have you severed the link to the Hunters?"

Ludwig nodded. "It's done. You can be in and out with minimal attention. Provided, of course, you don't blow anything sky high…"

The sincerity of Ludwig's concern, and the low volume which he uttered it, brought a cackle to the scholar's lips.

"You really think us savages, don't you?" he sneered. "How easily you Church folk forget."

Ludwig turned away, determined to get away from the conversation before it took any further turns.

"Don't let him suffer," he whispered, before departing.

The three Mensis scholars turned back to the Upper Cathedral Ward, and the task at hand.

Getting in was the hardest part. From here on out, it was child's play.

* * *

Several miles away, under the same glorious moonlight, Caryll was sat on a balcony, overlooking the Byrgenwerth grounds. The lake below him, cast pearly-white in the thrall of the luminous light, ripple soft wind blew over the shore. In his hands lay a scrawl of parchment containing his latest obsession. The calm night air and a silence broken only by the occasional chirp of a nesting frog or cicada were the perfect environment for inscribing runes. The smith's hands scribbled insatiably, possessed by a primal energy, completely enthralled.

"Caryll?"

Willem hobbled out onto the balcony, supported by his gnarly walking stick. The Runesmith turned his head to briefly acknowledge his master, before returning to his work.

"I thought I might find you out here."

Caryll grunted his affirmation. "Indeed, I find the swill of the water sat night quite soothing to one's mind."

Willem came closer, every step accompanied by a soft thud as his stick connected with the stone pave.

"I had hoped I might speak with you."

Caryll shut his eyes and sighed. "Can it wait, Master? I am the midst of inscribing this parchment, and I-"

"It has waited long enough."

Caryll stopped, finally wheeling around to look at Willem. The expression on his old master's face was calm, but even his blindfold could not disguise his melancholic demeanour.

"Caryll, you are the heir to my research," he declared. "Everything I have. It is yours. "

The Runesmith's breath caught in his throat. "Master, I don't know what to say…"

"Then you needn't say a thing, my boy," Willem replied solemnly. "Words are distractions. Whimsical, spirited things that have no place in a realm of enlightenment. This I have seen. It is the dark enticement of persuasion, uttered by a master of manipulation, that has led my old city to its ruin."

Caryll stayed silent, deeming it appropriate.

Willem sighed. "I fear soon I will not have the strength left in these old bones to show you the advancements my research has taken. I hear that silver chariot drawing near; death's curved halberd grinding along the edge of my window. Now is the time, or never."

"Master Willem?" Caryll asked, softly. "Are you alright?"

Willem ignored the question. "There is something I must show you. The prophet wishes it so."

"Of course, master," Caryll replied. "Lead the way."

Willem took Caryll through the winding staircase of Byrgenwerth's main research hall, and down to the ground floor, where towering bookcases and rows of flasks and tubes dominated the landscape. He continued on past all of this, until he reached a peculiar cellar door, bolted from the outside. Caryll gazed at Willem expectantly, but his old master gave no indication as to why there was a hidden passageway beneath the floor, when it had been installed, or what it was sued for. With a quivering, withered hand, Willem lifted it open, revealing a long wooden ramp, disappearing into pitch black after a couple of metres.

"I knew one day I would need to bring you down here," Willem explained. "So I did away with stairs."

Caryll peered into the abyss. The abyss peered back.

"What's down there, master?" he asked, sounding timid now. A deep, nauseating unease was setting into his stomach at the very idea of taking a journey into these uncharted depths.

"My fate," Willem explained. "And yours. And the rest of mankind's."

From the corner of his eye, Caryll could see the prophet watching, its spindly legs dangling over the sides of its pedestal. He dared not look at the thing. He had long since ceased to see the human it had once been behind all those glinting black eyes, forever fixed on the wall.

"Come," Willem beckoned, slowly hobbling into the darkness below. Caryll took several deep breaths, trying to calm the churning storm inside of him. But his efforts were to no avail. With rain lashing down and thunder brewing on the edges of the clouds, he began to roll downwards.

* * *

Zephyr's eyes fell from the swirling vortex of blue and white in front of his eyes. The cosmic augur, generated between the palm of his hands, dissipated, the blueish hues withdrawn, and the room returned to a dimmer, more mundane state.

There were some concerning sounds on the other side of his door. Screaming, mostly, although there were fainter, wetter sounds too – the splattering of blood against the finely-carpeted floors and wax-embellished walls.

The Choir Master rose from his seat, fists curling. The cacophony of killing drew closer, and he tensed as a dark shape hit the outside of his wall with a dull, soggy thud.

Seconds later, the door exploded, and three figures with maces and pistols strode into his chambers. They were stained in the blood of his fellow choirmen, but appeared completely unscathed. This was, perhaps, unsurprising, considering that his brigade was comprised of doctors and scientists, not fighters. Still, Zephyr could not contain his disappointment that the Choir, who were so revered by the Church and its acolytes, had been dispatched so easily.

The first of the men, clearly sent by Mensis, stepped forward. Instead of moving in to attack Zephyr outright, he cleared his throat, and made him an offer.

"If you give us Gehrman, we will spare the rest of your people."

Zephyr stared hard at the Mensis scholars, willing them to burn away to ash with every ounce of his superior mind.

"Who do you think you are?" he whispered. "To betray the Church like this… The ones who made it possible for you to even exist…"

"I'm not here for a debate, Choirboy," the Mensis leader retorted. "Why give your life for Laurence and those false idols? They have been misguided from the very beginning. We have made real breakthroughs in science and technology. This world is our playground."

"That may be so," Zephyr shot back. "But this place will be your grave."

The Choir Master drew his palms together, and a tiny blue hole, expanding quickly and ferociously, gave way to a glowing black projectile. The object, which was somewhat comparable to one of the Siderite meteorites discovered around Byrgenwerth, soared through the air, colliding with the Mensis leader, and smashing straight through him. There was barely any gore at all – the cosmic rock, propelled like a bullet on the will of Zephyr alone, continued its trajectory through the back wall and out into the main foyer of the building, and the Mensis leader, now missing the majority of his torso, slowly crumpled to the ground without a sound.

His two companions instantly attacked Zephyr, swinging their electrified maces like the arms of a windmill. The Choir Master disappeared in a haze of white, his body shimmering and vibrating as though it was changing on a molecular level, every one of his billions of cells humming with explosive energy. The two scholars stopped, panicked as they scoured the room for Zephyr. Before any of them could react, the Choir Master appeared again behind one of them, a blue surge of energy crackling in the centre of his left palm. The Mensis scholar cried out, lunging with his mace, but before he could make contact, he was thrown backwards off of his feet by a long, leathery limb that had forced its way out of Zephyr's hand.

His companion sent sprawling, the remaining scholar leapt at Zephyr, but the Choir Master simply zoomed away again, leaving naught but dust in his wake. When he rematerialized atop his desk, he was midway through charging another attack, this time taking the form of a white cloud of strange lights, which strafed and circled about above his head. The Mensis scholar pulled out his pistol, firing several shaken shots into the churning mass, but Zephyr was not visibly fazed at all, and the storm above his head burst outwards, each individual light streaming out as a serpentine ray of energy seeking out the Scholar with inhuman efficiency.

Trying to describe the way the man was torn apart by the lights is an impossible task. There was nothing earthly, or scientific about the wide they divided him, breaking him apart and into mere specks of organic matter. Certainly, no rational mind was ever intended to witness such a startling and grotesque application of force.

Zephyr stood amidst the ruins, a seething God watching over the rapturous destruction he had wrought.

"Fools…" he growled. "As if you could possibly comprehend the power of the Great Ones… You are mere children of the cosmos, destined to remain oblivious to its greater majesties. May the wrath of Oedon, Amygdala and Flora render your spirits-"

The Choir Master went silent as his head was blown apart from behind, the quicksilver bullet that had caused it sailing onwards into the wooden, multi-eyed statue that sat behind him.

The last scholar, still bloodied from his impact with the wall, lowered his pistol, whispering obscenities that no holy man should ever have to hear. After a few minutes, he composed himself with some difficulty, and clambered over Zephyr's fallen body to reach his desk. The drawers came open with little resistance, and after some fumbling, the scholar produced a set of golden keys, one of which would unlock the elevator on the top floor.

Afterward, he went over to the remains of his two companions. Swallowing hard, he uttered a soft, quiet apology, before taking out a vial from his pocket, and scraping up a sample of each of their obliterated remains.

'Anything that the Great Ones touch is useful to us. Claim it, for the good of Mensis,' Micolash had instructed.

The thought that the bodies of his dead colleagues could serve some unknown yet grand purpose was not exactly comforting, but the scholar did as he was instructed, bottling each sample and returning them to his satchel.

Outside, there were sounds of skirmish. Presumably, the survivors of the massacre – the remaining members of the Choir – were fleeing the site. This meant the path to the upper levels would be completely unobstructed.

With a final, despairing glance at the wreckage of Zephyr's chambers, the scholar turned towards the open doorway.

* * *

A terrifying wail pierced the quiet of the night.

The sentries on the wall that separated Old Yharnam from the rest of the city were instantly awakened, scrambling for their firearms and blades as the howl rose up again, growing louder by the second.

"What in the name of Kos is that?" one of them exclaimed, hoisting up his rickety old oil lantern to illuminate the streets below.

"I don't know," one of his associates whispered frightfully. "I've never heard a beast sound like that…"

There was a rush of movement in the dark below. One of the sentinels fired off a round from his blunderbuss, hoping to catch whatever was stirring in the shadows. A screech, reaching near fever-pitch followed, leading the sentinel to cheer.

"I got the bastard!" he laughed. "All by myself! Who needs those damn hunters anyway?!"

Turning his back on the streets, the sentinel gave a hearty chuckle. However, his boast was swiftly silenced as a gaping maw rose from the blackness, engulfing the man whole. Kicking and screaming, the sentinel disappeared into the blackness beneath, a final, terrified cry sounding across the length of the wall. His comrades let out a chorus of wails, firing wildly at the emptiness where the creature had reared its head, but no great effect.

From across the sleeping city, more banshee cries followed, giving the sentinels a pretty clear idea of what they were up against.

"It's a bloody army," one whispered.

Turning to his petrified underlings, he gave a fearful rallying cry.

"Send for Ludwig at once!"

* * *

Gehrman opened his eyes.

Immediately, he recoiled at his surroundings – a darkened cell, illuminated only in the centre by a hanging light. As he tried to shift away, he found himself pushing against a set of tight metal restraints, which only rewarded his efforts with strained muscles and aching flesh.

"Good evening, sleepyhead."

Gehrman's eyes spun about, trying to find the speaker. By one of the barred walls, he could make out the silhouette of an armoured figure, hands clutched to the bars and peering in at him.

He tried to shout at the figure, but his voice came out only as a pitiful rasp.

"Who… are you…?"

"That's not important," the figure replied, tauntingly. "But we know who you are. Gehrman, the first of the hunters. Tell me, was it by courage or by fear that you first picked up the scythe?"

"If you let me out… I'll show you," Gehrman hissed.

"I don't think so," the figure retorted as they started to walk around the cell perimeter, boots clanking upon the ground out of sight. "But I'll be happy to release you… from life -if you give us the location of the umbilical cords."

Gehrman's head fell forward. He had not thought about the cord in months.

"What do you want with that awful thing?" he moaned.

"That's none of your concern," the speaker informed him. "You took something that wasn't yours. Granted, it wasn't the Church's either. That cord is the property of the cosmos."

Gehrman froze, and then let out a spirited chuckle.

"I know who you are," he spat. "You're from Mensis. Only you lunatics speak like that. Come on, I don't want to talk to you. I want to speak to Micolash. Your master. My old friend."

The figure stopped pacing, and leant in through the bars of the cell. The light caught his face, and Gehrman's mouth clamped shut with a sharp intake of breath.

"You needn't look far then, _old friend_ ," Micolash said, voice softening like a rotting fruit. "I wouldn't let my boy do this interrogation. He's far too… violent, in his methods. I prefer to be more cerebral. Torture needn't be about pain, pure and simple. There are more _enriching_ ways to mine a mind."

"How long have you been sat in the shadows, Micolash?" Gehrman rasped. "You sound as mad as a march hare."

"Long enough to see that fighting the night is pointless," Micolash replied calmly. "The moon beckons not violence, but enlightenment. When the red moon hangs low, mankind's future will be made abundant to him. Such is the will of the great and old ones who watch over this world."

"Poetic," Gehrman sneered.

"There's nothing quite as repellent as a damned hypocrite, Gehrman," Micolash sighed. "Was it not upon your findings that we began our conversation with the cosmos? Anyhow, that's quite enough irrelevant talk. Time for you to sing, old friend."

Micolash stepped away from the cage, and Gehrman felt the temperature in the room drop by several degrees as the sound of metallic wrenching echoed throughout the chamber.

"What are you doing, Micolash?" Gehrman asked, fear rising to a crescendo inside of him.

There was no reply. The roar of the chains grew louder, and louder, until the whole machination came to a complete halt, and an eerie still set in.

Gehrman was about to call out again when, without warning, the entirety of his vision was lit up by a pulsing red light, brighter than the glare of the sun itself. Instantly, he felt his skin rippling, the blood coursing in his veins ramming up against his skin in a desperate attempt to escape. It was like he was being assaulted by hundreds of thousands of little pins, digging into him, yet unable to break the skin or cause him anything other than a prick of agony upon every single space of his body they inhabited.

Through the crimson haze, Gehrman could just about make out the outline of an eye boring into him, so intense that he couldn't hold its gaze for more than single second, or else he felt his own visors would melt out of their sockets.

The pain continued, unrelentingly. Gehrman found his mouth agape faster than he knew how to stop it.

"There are only two pieces of the cord left!" he cried. "I burned the third!"

"Where are they?" Micolash asked, his voice still clear as day over the overwhelming force of the eye.

"Ahhhh, oh god, oh god! One is in my old abandoned workshop! Argh! The other is hidden under a coffin in Oedon Chapel!"

The red light cut out so suddenly it was as though the power had been cut out. Just before a rattling chain carried it away, Gehrman saw the body of his torturer – a pulsating, writhing mass of flesh with two gigantic, bulbous eyes. The thing on the chain blinked at Gehrman, almost as though apologising, before it disappeared into the darkness.

"Good show, good show!" Micolash laughed. "Just as entertaining as ever. You hunters really are something. You should consider taking up dancing lessons."

Gehrman could not find the breath to respond to the taunt. His skin felt as though it had been bathed in lava, or as though a hive of insects had been birthed right out of him.

"Well, I think I'll leave you here for a bit, old friend," Micolash chimed. "We'll soon find out if there's any truth to these answers you have given me, or if we need to arrange a second session. I look forward to it."

Micolash strode out of the tower, lighter than wind. He reached the balcony overlooking Ya'Hargul, and took in a deep, cleansing breath. Across the rooves of Ya'Hargul, clung to every spire and parapet as far as the eye could see, his beloved children gazed back up at him, constantly in awe of their wondrous landlord.

"Can there be any doubt?" he whispered to himself, before increasing his pitch to a shout. "Can there be any doubt – that this is the work of Greatness?"

His city gave him no answer. It needn't. He felt the strength of every one of its denizens flowing through him.

Yharnam would fall. And Ya'Hargul would rise.


	12. The Wood Through the Trees

**Chapter Twelve: The Wood Through the Trees**

 _"_ _I felt myself on the edge of the world; peering over the rim into a fathomless chaos of eternal night."_

 _―_ _H.P. Lovecraft, Dagon_

* * *

Caryll sat very still, trying in vain to calm the writhing hysteria that was snaking its oily-black tendrils through his body. His blood crept through his veins sluggishly, like sand, but with a vapid, icy abundance of care. He felt like the whole world was slipping away – and in a way, it was.

His whole world. Everything he knew.

Gone in an instant.

Willem was not best pleased by the reaction of his pupil. He had hoped for quite an opposite display – after all, this was his legacy; the legacy that he wished for Caryll to take up and continue with fervour.

But the Runesmith felt nothing but despair at Willem's revelations. The cellar which he had been led into contained some of the most horrific things Caryll had ever seen – denizens of dark nightmares, some of which he was plagued by himself.

Multi-eyed monstrosities with hairy, bony wings and slobbering mandibles chained to the walls.

Luminous white slugs, slithering up down and around their containers, eyes fixed upon Caryll at every slithery turn.

And, perhaps worst of all, was them. The three black-cloaked figures, faces obscured in the dim light by their phantasmal hoods, that were stood rigidly still in the corner – not as prisoners but as sentinels; guardians of Willem's work. Every so often when the rushing of blood in Caryll's ears died down enough, he could hear soft hisses coming from their direction, and even caught sight of a forked tongue poking out from under one of their shadow-garbed hoods.

Finally, Caryll found the strength and the conviction that would allow him to respond. But, instead of words, all that came out from his quivering lips was a soft, low moan – terror, despair and incredulity inflecting its sonorous tone.

Willem saw the change in Caryll and tentatively reached out for his pupil, but the Runesmith was already wheeling himself away, taking no time or care for the direction which he was headed. Several times he found his wheels ramming helplessly into one of the bookshelves, and broke free with brute force alone, energy he had thought he had long lost along with his ability to walk returning to him as his body propelled itself away from the danger it was certain it was in.

Willem started to follow, but Caryll reached for his coat, producing a tiny flintlock pistol that he had concealed there. The old Byrgenwerth master, for all of his supposed insight, was taken aback as the firearm was shakily levelled at his head.

"Truly a most astonishing pupil," Willem sighed. "You always find new ways to surprise me."

Caryll shook his head, sweat dribbling down his forehead as he held his aim steady. "I won't kill you, Master. Not if you stay right there. But I'm going, and you can't do a thing to stop me."

Willem shook his head disparagingly. "Look at the fates of those who have abandoned Byrgenwerth. Ruination has always followed in their wake. You, I know, share my vision of a world where we humans may stand alongside the Great Ones not as ants, but as equals."

Caryll swallowed, his mouth drying up like the soil around an extinguished bonfire. "Of course…. But this isn't what I envisioned. This… this is madness…."

Willem's gaze hardened. "Then you are just as blind as Laurence after all."

Caryll bit his lip. "Forgive me, master, but I feel that you would see more clearly if you pulled your head out of your arsehole."

The Byrgenwerth master recoiled from the exclamation, and Caryll used the time to wheel himself back up the ramp and into the main foyer of the lecture hall. At the top, and sat on his podium as always, the prophet observed him closely, black eyes like great pitfalls which one could fall into if they drew close enough.

Caryll stared straight back at the Byrgenwerth spider, daring it to intervene with an intensity and passion he simply hadn't known that he had. The prophet held his gaze for some time, but Caryll could see that the spider was shaken, and it's inquisitive, malevolent aura slowly started to retreat away.

Caryll smiled in spite of himself.

"Emissary to the Gods, indeed," he remarked, before heading to his quarters to fetch his satchel. To his surprise, Willem did not follow him out of the basement laboratory, and he found the path to the outside completely unobstructed.

The night air was crisp and cool on his skin, and he took a deep breath, inhaling the purity of nature.

Where he would go from here was unimportant. All that mattered is that he did.

* * *

Ludwig peered over the edge of the wall. In the darkness, he could only make out the outline of the winding streets below, but the pungent smell in the air – congealed blood, phlegm and other bodily excretions that are best left unmentioned – was enough to give him a semi-accurate vision of what awaited him below.

Steeling himself, shoulders wedged in against his sides, he exhaled slowly, feeling a calm still wash over him. Then, he turned to face his party.

"I doubt I need to explain to you why we are here tonight," he announced, before doing so anyway. "Old Yharnam has become so corrupted by the plague that it is now a threat to the rest of the city that surrounds it. We are the last line of defence in this peril. The last hope for the survivors rests with us."

One of his hunters folded his arms and shot Ludwig with a scornful frown. "Why do you think there are any survivors?"

Ludwig sighed. "Because every hell in this world has a dark corner to hide in, if you know where to look. And if your will to live is strong enough."

Nobody in the party had a scathing response for that. Ludwig sensed that, for perhaps the first time, the Church Hunters had put aside their petty discriminations and were willing to work with him for a better cause. Or maybe they just thought it easier to navigate a nightmare with a strong lantern at their front. Either way, their silent obedience was a joy to the Holy Blade, so much so that he had almost forgotten about the terrible thing he had done in an attempt to get it.

The gatekeeper gave the party a nervous smile as he pushed open the tall wooden barriers, which creaked and came apart so slowly that the tension in the air, circling the hunters like mosquitoes waiting to feed, was palpable.

As Ludwig shone his wick into the great black beyond the gate, he caught his first glimpse of the ravaged township.

There were corpses everywhere. Most of them were still recognisable as a human form, but some were so steeped in blood, both red and a sickly green, that they seemed to forgo any semblance of humanity. Faces hung agape in eternal, silent screams of pain and terror, some facing straight upwards at the stars, as though partaking of one final prayer to the Great Ones.

The scent of death and squalor was so intense that the first row of hunters all felt their eyes welling up. One woman even doubled over and splattered the cobbles with her distaste.

"Be strong," Ludwig ordered, taking his first step into the hellish landscape.

A small, ornate bridge was the first major piece of scenery that he could make out in the torchlight, and he approached it quietly, every bristle on his neck standing up rigidly as he anticipated an attack from any and all directions.

A light evening fog had rolled in, evoking memories of Old Yharnam from months before, when the 'pea soups' were such a natural and predictable thing that many children took to playing outside in them, completely safe from any danger. Now though, the wispy white strands inspired naught but unease, and as the hunters made their way across the bridge, many of them were shocked by what appeared to be figures dancing through the fog, tendrils weaving out at them as though to strike.

But there was no imminent danger. Every human they encountered was dead, and many were well on their way to becoming dust. It seemed that the ashen blood, combined with the beastly scourge, led to extremely-fast decomposition. Even the skeletal remains that the party encountered were broken down – worn away and coated in green pus that seemed to eat the marrow ravenously.

Before long, the party reached a courtyard. Ludwig, whose nauseous terror had slowly softened into a light unease, suddenly stopped, his insides churning like a rough sea, as the sound of a light footfall rushed at him from out of the fog.

With shaking hands, he unsheathed his moonlight blade, and raised it aloft, hoping to catch sight of whatever had caused the ruckus.

A wet splash from his right turned his head, and he finally saw it.

A body was dragging itself along the tiles towards them. To describe it as a person would be inaccurate – it was but a hollowed husk, bloodied, shrivelled, and lacking any flesh from the waist down.

Ludwig had to clamp his mouth shut to stop himself from retching. The other members of his party were not so restrained, unfortunately, and their chorus of disgust echoed all around the narrow walls.

As the pitiful thing drew closer, Ludwig could hear it whispering feverishly. Words like 'beast' and 'flood' pricked up his ears, but the dialogue was mostly incomprehensible, and likely morbid to the extreme. The Holy Blade barely paused for thought, as the figure drew closer to his party. With one swift arc, he sent a blade of shimmering green coursing through the air, splitting the shuffling corpse into two distinctly-dead halves.

Sensing the glances of fear and terror that were landing on him, Ludwig turned to address his group.

"There's no other way," he professed. "And we have hunted worse things in these ghastly nights than that poor fellow."

As if to chime in on Ludwig's point, a chilling screech sounded from several streets away. One of the hunters, a slight man with a rifle, recoiled at the sound, his pupils seared with glacial-white petrification.

The Holy Blade cocked his own firearm, checking for the comforting clank of bullets sitting inside of their chambers.

"Deal with… that…" he ordered, calmly indicating the ruptured corpse.

Several hunters bearing only primitive flamesprayers came forth, dousing the body in brown oil, before turning their barrels on it, sparking a flame that soon spread across the whole of the corpse. As the smell of barbecued flesh caused several one of the fainter hunters to cover their mouths, Ludwig turned back to the road ahead – the darkness that reached out for him with coiled fingers.

"Onward."

* * *

Maria leapt forwards, both of her blades outstretched and directed at her opponent. The Cainhurst Knight anticipated her trajectory, stepping to the side and aiming a swipe of his own at Maria, who was too caught up in her own momentum to dodge with any effectiveness. The edge of the sword caught her in the rib, and she yelped as her blood was splattered across the wall, her fabric-weaved battle armour torn open under the strength of the blow.

The former hunter hobbled away, expecting her opponent to rush in and finish the job, just as she had seen Victyr do to all of his opponents. However, the knight stood still – respectful, even – allowing her to regain her composure before raising his blade antagonistically again.

From her throne, Annalise watched the battle. Her bony fingers curled tighter around each other with every connecting blow, her smile widening with every drop of Cainhurst blood that stained the tiled floor.

"Again," she said, eyeing Maria.

Maria sighed, hands tightening around the hilts of her Rakuyo blades as she again attempted to visualise the attack pattern of her opponent.

The Cainhurst Knight struck first this time, leaping forwards and swiping three times with his straightsword, aiming for a different part of Maria's anatomy each time. This time, the old hunter was ready, and she ducked and weaved around all three swipes, before countering with the side of her right blade, smashing the knight in the jaw with the pommel. As the Cainhurst warrior fell away, Maria saw him drooling red, and several cracked molars clattered onto the ground.

Annalise's smile grew into a fully-formed grin. As though aware of her aunt's approval even without glancing over, Maria was revitalised, bring her left blade around to strike the knight again. Before he could recover, Maria was on them, slashing with both blades and tearing open his chestplate, leaving bare flesh exposed to the sting of the paired blades.

The knight fell to his knees, head bowed before Maria. Excited and enthralled by her hard-fought victory, the old hunter looked to Annalise, who reciprocated her joy in spades, rising out of her gilded chair to fill the cavernous hall with riotous applause.

"Only one thing left to do now," the Queen of Cainhurst said, before nodding towards Maria's bested opponent.

The old hunter raised a quizzical eyebrow. "I've won, haven't I?"

"Indeed," Annalise replied. "You must now make his power your own. Take him. Take him from this life."

Maria felt her insides turn to wet clay.

"What? Kill him? After he had all of those chances to kill me, and didn't take them? Where's the honour in that?"

Annalise's face lit up with something darker, all the joy of her smile twisting apart and reforming with an odious malice.

"Let me tell you a little secret, girl. There's no honour in losing. Especially not if you're of pure Cainhurst descent."

Maria looked at the fallen knight, who had removed his helmet completely, and was looking blankly at her, only his eyes betraying the terror that must have been seizing him at that moment.

"I can't," Maria whispered, and she let her blades fall to the ground with a dull metal bang.

Annalise was silent for a few moments. During the pause, Victyr rose out of his seat, his own Chikage blade flying into his hand as he charged for the knight. Maria stepped in front of the man, and Victyr stopped dead. His dark eyes fell on Maria, and she felt a great chasm tear its way out of the ground between them, stepping away slightly out of fear of being consumed by it. The King of Cainhurst rarely seemed to experience any other emotion than unbridled rage for every living thing except his Queen, but now he seemed to be thoughtful and considered, his shoulders slumping as the fight started to leave him like flour through a sieve.

"Sit down, Victyr," Annalise commanded. The Bloody Crow didn't give it a second thought, returning to his seat in a hurry.

Maria stared at the tiles to avoid the Queen's hypnotic glare, but she continued to feel its needle-like points digging into her flesh.

"My child, you have already brought us so much," Annalise cooed. "You betrayed your oldest friends to bring us a vial of the miracle blood. You took up your mother's old blades to fight for Cainhurst. But you won't kill for us. It seems a little… strange, don't you think?"

Maria shook her head fiercely. "That blood is only to be used for healing. That's what you promised. And I will only fight for you defensively. I won't kill this man in cold blood."

Annalise crossed her arms, before seeming to relent a little.

"No matter. This castle wasn't built in a day, and neither will you be."

The fallen knight rose to his feet shakily, eyebrows knotted high on his head, betraying the great relief that he felt. However, his joy was swiftly cut short when Victyr, encouraged by the patting hand of his queen, strode over to him in a matter of seconds, pulling out his Chikage and viciously stabbing the man repeatedly in-between his eyes.

Maria's gloved hand fell over her mouth to block the rising screech in her throat. The knight, still eyes still reflecting his ill-fated hope for life, crumpled, his blood already seeping across the ground like a surge of gelatinous water.

The Bloody Crow exchanged a further look with Maria, a dark smile crossing the Cainhurst King's lips as he processed the repulsion on her face. Then, Annalise fell into her chair again, and Victyr rushed back to her side zealously.

"There's always tomorrow," the vile Queen smirked.

* * *

The trail of mutilated corpses led the party of Hunters to a large, open building in the centre of the district, where high-pitched shrieking could be heard echoing incessantly around the antiquated walls. A vivid red streak ran along the rain-soaked cobbles and into the old halls, with the cold glass windows and the old Mensis banners that flapped in the wind – now just as important as a scrap of paper in a scrap pile. Above the threshold, a freshly-deceased corpse swayed in the night air. Ludwig could see from their discoloured robes that the deceased had been a member of the Black Church Clergy, a sect of the Healing Church that he had been all too keen to avoid. Laurence had once called them a 'backbone of the faith', but all he saw in them was their sickening inclination to inspiring fear in their congregation.

As the Holy Blade stood and ruminated on the state of affairs, a feverish wail from the shadows of the old building caused him to stir, his rifle honing in on the source of the cries. The figure, slight in form but horribly twisted in appearance, leapt from the darkness, white veil rippling in the wind as it rushed at Ludwig. The Holy Blade bit his tongue, tasting his own rusty blood as he peppered the oncoming creature with a round of quicksilver bullets.

The baneful beast fell, claws outstretched, only a few feet from Ludwig. However, the Holy Blade had very little time to recover, as a blur of motion in the corner of his vision indicated the presence of further creatures. His party of hunters drew their weapons out and stood firm, waiting for the attack to come. Their patience was rewarded with haste, as the darkness of the corner gave way to a flood of attacking beasts - all no taller than four feet, wearing a frightful white hood that obscured their faces.

The army of creatures swarmed around the hunters, their sharpened talons swiping across the leather-woven cloaks of their prey. Quickly, any remaining bravado amongst the group dissipated, and many of the party started to quiver and cry. Most of these hunters were volunteers with little experience of combat, drafted in on short notice to replace Ludwig's fallen brethren from previous hunts. As such, in the face of an unfamiliar enemy, they were unable to adapt, and although their flailing strikes were able to catch their opponents well enough, many fell before the entire swarm of creatures was slaughtered.

Ludwig felt his breath catch in his throat as he realised that he had remained completely still as several of his group were cut down – something that had not gone unnoticed. As his party turned angrily toward him, he tried desperately to turn their attentions away.

"Fine work, my Spartans," he declared, clapping spuriously. "You make the Church proud."

One of the surviving women clambered forwards, thrusting her saw-bladed spear in front of the Holy Blade's face.

"What the fuck was that?" she hissed, panting heavily. "You let those people die!"

Ludwig shook his head. "No. Those people were not worthy of their charge. It is you, who stand before me alive and well, who have earned the right to serve the Church with blade in-hand."

"Shut up," the woman retorted, drawing the serrated edge of the spear closer to Ludwig's jugular. "Men like you are filth. This is sport to you. Why, you'd have let those horrible creatures kill every last one of us."

"Etta, there's no need for this," one of the other hunters exclaimed. "We can fight for ourselves, we don't need him."

"Quiet, Jorge," the woman snapped back. "When Gehrman led these hunts, they fought as one. No man or woman left behind. You're a disgrace."

Ludwig stared daggers at the woman, willing her to crumble into ash and scatter. The man whom she had addressed as Jorge was kneeling by one of the fallen creatures, examining it closely.

"Wait, these look like the robes they used to sell on the streets down here on weekend days," he proclaimed, eyes narrowing. "Oh my… They've become… fused with their skin. What manner of bestial transformation is this?"

"We can take samples for analysis at a later time," Ludwig interjected, keen to reassume control.

The woman's head snapped back at him, and she pursed her lips tightly.

"You'll do no such thing. These were people once, until the damned Church came along and poisoned them."

Ludwig's nostrils flared. "You dare blaspheme in front of me?"

The woman stepped closer, her saw spear now only inches from the veins of Ludwig's neck.

"One more word out of you and I'll gut you like a pig. Now, who says it's about time we-"

In a flash of movement so sudden it seemed to blink itself into existence, the woman was snatched by a pair of elongated, bony arms, and pulled away. Ludwig caught sight of a gigantic beast, near seven feet in length, galloping along the side of the wall like a spider, before it was swallowed by the shadows from which it had struck. Jorge, who was late to process the attack, leapt to his feet, panic seizing his body.

"Etta! Ebrietas above, help her!"

Ludwig watched the space where the creature had disappeared, barely taking note of anything Jorge was wailing. Deep inside of him, beneath all the many layers of optimism and good faith that he cloaked himself with, he felt animalistic sadism passionately burning. If there was ever such a thing as a righteous death, he had just been witness to it.

Jorge turned to Ludwig, frantically spluttering cries for help with increasing feebleness. The Holy Blade stoked his vengeful flames for a second more, before snapping into action.

"That creature is a serious threat not only to all of us but to the rest of the city as well. If it were to scale the wall around Old Yharnam, then it may slaughter your loved ones in their beds. Bring ruin to our town. Are you just going to stand around and let that happen, or will you join me in raining down just retribution?"

The gathering of hunters did not appear particularly enthusiastic about the idea, but several brandished their weapons and started to load up the chambers of their guns in anticipation, which seemed like answer enough to Ludwig.

"Very well," he declared. "Let us give chase."

The banshee-like screams of the creature made it reasonably easy to track, and before long, the group arrived at the source. The Church of the Good Chalice, once a noble shrine to the Pthumerian labyrinth, source of the Old Blood and of the Church itself, was now but a shadow of such former glory. Several of the stain glass front windows – beacons of faith and fortune to followers of the Healing Church – were shattered, and the stone walls were steeped in blood and mucus. The clusters of gravestones that adorned the winding path to the Church's front entrance were severely damaged, broken apart by powerful limbs and rendered into rubble on the wet grass.

The grand wooden doors stood wide open, beckoning Ludwig toward them. The Holy Blade tore his disdainful gaze away from the wanton destruction inflicted upon the church grounds towards them, feeling his determination falter as another shriek, louder due to its proximity, echoed over the glade.

"This is it," Ludwig announced. "Be ready."

The party ventured through the open doors cautiously – each member of the group passing through individually, and with their weapon readied. When everyone was inside, Ludwig turned to face the end of the long, pillared hallway, and froze.

At the altar of the church was their beast. And it was like nothing that anyone had ever seen.

More humanoid in form than any of the lycanthropic beasts or horned cleric abominations that he had hunted, this beast was gangly, supporting its frail form on four spindly legs. Its back, arched so rigidly that its bones were visible through its flesh, was gooey-wet and pinkish, and noticeably scarred in many places. As a gasp of revulsion swept through the hunters in turn, the creature stirred, leaping around to lay its sights on the group.

Even from nearly twenty metres away, Ludwig could see that its vaguely-humanoid face was skeletal, although any more distinguished features were nigh-on invisible beneath the pair of ears that hung across it.

The creature wailed like a banshee, and took a couple of swift, staggered steps forwards. In one of its claws was the limp form of Etta, stained from head-to-toe in blood. As the beast crept forward, it dragged her across the tiles like a child with a teddy bear, an image reinforced by the ragdoll-like weightlessness of her body.

Suddenly, the creature let out an ear-piercing screech, and grabbed Etta's body with both hands, before tearing into her manically, flesh, blood and bone exploding out of her as she was shredded like sawdust. The beast stooped down, lapping up the spillage hungrily.

Ludwig fell onto his knees, vision spinning as he tried to burn the fresh memory from his mind. Unfortunately, the gore, almost comic in its hyperbole, was branded into his vision, and no amount of blinking or retching could dislodge it. Beside him, Jorge was shaking with fury, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. With a roar of anger, he extended his wrist-mounted stake driver, and started to charge at the beast.

Sensing the threat, the beast finished its meal, and reared up. Ludwig felt another cascade of ice fall through his guts as he realised that the flaps of skin that he had thought were the creature's ears were actually torn from across its back, as though it had been flayed with a whip.

Jorge reached the beast and swung out furiously, aiming for the creature's bony head. The beast was far too agile however, simply leaping away and onto the wall, whereupon it launched itself with frightening speed back at Jorge for a counter-attack. The hunter had no time to react, and was swept up in the creature's claws, disappearing in a fountain of blood as it clamped its teeth around his head and curled up tightly to devour him.

By now, the beast's petrifying visage was no longer enough to keep the other hunters from joining the fray, and the group rushed forwards, firearms exploding in a haze of smoke and oily gunpowder. Even Ludwig, who was numbed from head-to-toe by the display of gore he had witnessed, was ambling towards the fight, driven by the sheer will he had left that he would not be shown up in front of his brigade again.

The bloodied beast giggled as it saw the army of hunters rushing towards it. With a feral cry, it leapt onto the side of one of the pillars, before pouncing down on the pair of hunters at the front of the charge, caving in their heads instantaneously under the brute strength of its claws. However, before it could evade again, the closest hunter swung out at the beast with his serrated cane-whip, succeeding in slicing open its emaciated hide and prompting it to whimper in agony, before he too was yanked off of his feet and torn apart. Wounded now, the beast hobbled away, its movement speed rendered more sluggish by the energetic flow of blood from its open wound.

Several more hunters lay into the beast, one driving his axe through its shoulder blade and splintering its left arm in two. This loss caused the creature to topple onto its side, whereupon several more blades were thrust into its body, piercing its flesh in multiple places.

 _"_ _They're doing this,"_ Ludwig thought, a smile spreading across his face. " _They're actually doing it!"_

Sadly, such joyous thoughts were long-lived, as the Holy Blade gazed back over his shoulder, eyes widening as the blurred pattering of footfalls in his peripheral grew more intense.

Ludwig was sent sprawling to the ground, the second and third blood-starved beasts thundering into the church and screeching in fury at the sight of their fallen brother, which was now breathing its last on the cold tiled floor. The hunters that were continuing to attack it could not shrug off their frenzied bloodlust in time to take any kind of defensive posture, and as such, they were torn apart instantly by the vengeful beasts, their blood-stained weapons clattering onto the floor by their feet. The remaining fighters hurried away from the two monsters as they gorged on the blood of the fallen, ripping them apart with absolutely no consideration or restraint.

Dazed but still in fighting form, Ludwig rose to his feet, and swung out with his luminous blade. The ensuing pulse of green magic exploded violently through the back of one of the feeding beasts, killing it instantly. The other reacted violently to this, furiously leaping onto the wall and running Ludwig down. The Blade had only a tiny window of opportunity to react, but he didn't waste it, bringing the pulsating shaft of his sword back around and allowing the charging beast to impale itself, its skeletal maw ploughing right into the tip of the blade.

After prising the dead beast from his sword, Ludwig took a deep breath and raised his mighty blade into the air above his head, attempting to rally his troops.

"Old Yharnam has fallen," he declared. "The beasts have it now. There's no choice left. Burn it all."

A few of the hunters looked divided about the orders but most could see the sense in it, and there was a small, yet significant moment of respect for Ludwig amongst their number, with few of his critics able to deny that he had been a powerful force during the battle against the pack of blood-starved beasts.

There wasn't too much resistance on their way back through the town. They were briefly besieged by a horde of the veiled creatures from earlier, supported from the shadows by one of the blood-starved beasts, but the conflict didn't last long. Ludwig's hunters seemed to have picked up a bit of their leader's fighting style, allowing some of their smaller enemies to use their own momentum against them to lead them to a swift death. Upon killing the blood-starved beast, two of the party, spurred on by bloodlust, crucified the creature, hanging it from the ceiling of the old building they had passed through earlier as a sing of their dominance over it. Although Ludwig didn't exactly approve of his Church Hunters boasting about a kill, he was so pleased at the sight of camaraderie in his number that the distaste in his mouth didn't last long.

Along the way, Ludwig discovered another dead Black Church acolyte. This one had seemingly blown out his own brains, judging from the pistol by his limp right hand and the spattering of blood against the wall. The Holy Blade scrutinised the man's belongings briefly, discovering a set of unopened glass vials which he took for later examination. He had little time to dwell on his findings however, as his group was set upon my more enraged beasts.

The hunters unleashed their flamesprayers upon every wooden structure they could see. Much like the hamlet years before, Old Yharnam cindered over the course of the night, flames licking at every square inch of the plague-stricken town. Great black clouds of billowing smoke rose up high into the night as nearly ninety-percent of the city's infrastructure fell overnight, and the last vestiges of the human population it had once held were burnt away to nothing.

Throughout the district, the agonised screams of more blood-starved beasts broke through the vacuous silence. From the top of the wall surrounding Old Yharnam, Ludwig could practically see the hordes of beasts meeting their fiery demise, and the thought brought a faint, and somewhat unbecoming, smile to his lips.

As the great doors were closed and bound tightly, this time for good, Ludwig bade a sombre farewell to Old Yharnam.

Current population: zero.

* * *

 _\- One Week Later -_

Laurence looked up from his papers. By the frail light of his lamp, he could see Ludwig walking towards him from across the room. On instinct, he withdrew his hands from the desk, concealing them underneath.

"Ludwig," he acknowledged, somewhat perturbed by the arrival of his underling. "What are you doing here at this late hour?"

The Holy Blade's face was invisible in the darkness, but Laurence could sense his agitation from several feet away. "I needed to see you. Now."

The coarse tone of his inferior was enough to rile Laurence. The Vicar angrily shifted in his seat, back arching against the hard wood.

"Well?" he growled. "How can I help you."

Ludwig curled his fist, but remained composed.

"I need you to explain this to me. Everything."

"Explain what?" Laurence's saintly calm was quickly dissipating, a fiery indignation replacing it. "You're making little sense."

Ludwig stepped forward a little, and Laurence caught sight of his face in the half-light. The Holy Blade's face was contorted by a churning struggle of emotions – anger, fear and pure disgust were all present, and constantly fighting for dominance.

"Back in Old Yharnam I found a couple of dead Black acolytes," he began, voice quivering under the strain. "They had all committed suicide. At first I thought it had something to do with them being infected by the plague, but then I found one with a set of vials in his coat. Unopened, at that point. I ran tests on them."

Laurence remained silent as Ludwig spoke. His eyes shimmered in the glow of the lamp, but he betrayed no sense of anguish at what the Holy Blade was saying.

"I checked again. I triple-checked. I had two other doctors run their own tests. The vials contained the ashen affliction in its base form. Vials that belong to our labs."

Laurence's mouth fell agape as Ludwig raised his hunter's rifle, previously concealed behind his back, and levelled it at Laurence's head. His aim was unsteady, sabotaged by his own trembling hands, but from the look in his eyes – both deeply-upset and brimming with malice – he was clearly not bluffing.

"I tried so hard to come up with any kind of explanation that would make sense," Ludwig cried, tears brimming in his eyes. "Maybe they were just obtaining samples of the infection for study. But then I asked the Black Church's leader, Argus, about it. And he tried to have me killed at my home."

Laurence sat very still, not even daring to breath. Seeing Ludwig's finger curling around the trigger, he finally spoke. "You're a smart man, Ludwig. I can see there's little point in trying to dissuade you. But, if you kill me, this whole thing comes crashing down. Everything you worked for will burn to ashes."

"I don't care!" Ludwig shrieked. "I don't care about the Church, the old blood or you! You're a murderer – a stone cold fucking murderer! And I'm an accomplice to all of that! I wanted to be a hero, and you've made me into the worst kind of villain!"

"Sometimes good people have to do bad things for a good cause," Laurence explained. "Old Yharnam was going to destroy itself and the reputation of the Healing Church if I hadn't intervened."

"So you took it upon yourself to destroy it yourself?" Ludwig whispered. Hot tears fell down his smooth cheeks, his wavy hair tangling in duress.

"I had no idea that the ashen blood would lead to the beastly plague," Laurence replied. "You must believe me. I had only the best intentions."

"Oh, well that's okay then, is it?" Ludwig wailed, exerting so hard that he accidentally fired a shot off to Laurence's left, smashing an inkpot that had been resting on the shelf and sending a torrent of blue raining down over the pair. "You are cursed, Laurence; an evil, evil man."

"You aren't going to kill me, Ludwig," Laurence said coldly. "You still need me. You still need the Church. Think about all of the good we have done. The lives we have saved. Sacrifices must be made for the future. You must see that."

Ludwig's resolve seemed to falter for a second, his grip on his rifle loosening.

"I… I can't…" he whispered, sobbing.

"I thought you were an important man, Ludwig. A founding father of the Church, and it's most proud sentinel. Was I wrong?"

Ludwig didn't reply, just let out a muffled cry, his head bowing. The rifle fell from his hands.

"Go home, Ludwig," Laurence ordered. "We can forget this ever happened."

Ludwig started to back up, leaving his rifle behind on the wooden struts. Laurence gave a thin, icy smile as the Holy Blade backed out of the door, and closed it behind him. Once he was certain that Ludwig wouldn't come charging back in, Laurence lifted his hands out from underneath the table.

"You're right, Ludwig. I am cursed," he said softly, staring at the weathered skin at the tips of his fingers and the cracked nails that were starting to elongate and curl.

"But there's no going back now."


	13. Schism

**A/N: Surprise!**  
 **Yeah, okay, so if you were one of the ones who read the original Chapter 13, you'll probably recall what a complete and utter shitshow it was. My pal, the talented Leider Hosen (Faded Embers: READ IT) once again stepped in to haul my ass from the wreckage, recommending many changes to the content. The most major of these, is that I have decided to cut the thing into two, less bulky chapters, which meant realigning my blueprints for the later chapters. Hopefully, with more room to breathe, Cainhurst will flourish in the way it was meant to the first time around.**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen: Schism**

 _"If religion were true, its followers would not try to bludgeon their young into an artificial conformity; but would merely insist on their unbending quest for truth, irrespective of artificial backgrounds or practical consequences."_

 _\- H.P. Lovecraft, The Infidels_

* * *

The umbilical cord was strangely heavy in Micolash's hands. No longer than a foot, and only a fraction of the full thing, the slimy pink mass seemed to exert an enormous amount of energy.

It was certainly alien enough. Rather than resembling a human umbilical cord, this one was covered in strange holes, which some of the Ya'Hargul researchers had suggested was allowing the cord to breathe. Even whilst it sat completely still in the palm of his hand, Micolash could sense the life flourishing beneath its smooth flesh, desperate to escape and bloom into something more.

The leader of the School of Mensis briefly entertained the idea of cutting it open, but shuffled the thought to the back of his head, and returned the cord to its place inside the glass container.

"Greatness has no expiration date," he assured himself.

Unfortunately, he had been unable to obtain the second fragment that Gehrman had promised him. Although he had not been lying about the segment inside of the coffin in Oedon Chapel, there was no truth to his claim surrounding the old Hunter's Workshop. There was nothing there but dusted weapons racks and wilted grass – the forgotten dreams of a blood-drunk murderer.

This meant that the old hunter had lied to him – as such, his punishment would be severe.

Collecting two of his black iron-clad warriors, Micolash began the trek across Ya'Hargul's labyrinthine streets to the tower in which Gehrman was being held. The seething anger which had risen up inside of him upon learning of the deception had quickly cooled and dissipated, replaced by a cold determination. Arguably, there was nothing pretty about physical torture, but in this case, it was perfectly warranted. After all, there was no place in the new world for deceivers or sceptics – both of which Gehrman was guilty of.

The trio burst into the tower, ascended the spiralling stairs, and entered the holding cells. Micolash froze, the contents of his stomach hardening into solid bile as he saw the empty cell, and the corpses of two of his guards – as well as his head interrogator, scattered over the floor.

"How did this happen?" one of the accompanying warriors exclaimed. "That cell was heavily guarded!"

Micolash shook his head and tiredly pressed two fingers to his forehead.

"I know I shouldn't expect perfection from any of you," he whispered. "Not while you are still human. But this… this is incompetence, pure and simple. It cannot go unpunished."

Maintaining his calm composure, Micolash pivoted on the spot, his right hand turning into a churning blue light. In seconds, a group of tentacle limbs burst from the centre of the pulsing energy, snaring the first warrior's head, and crushing it into pulp in an instant. The iron-clad's blood soaked the wall, and his headless torso crashed onto the ground with a metallic boom. The second warrior, alarmed, drew his Tonitrus, but Micolash put out a warning hand, and shushed the iron-clad with a patronising gesture.

"Hush," he said calmly. "We have no need of the second segment. The first should suffice. As such, only one of you need die."

The warrior's gaze shifted between the corpse of his fallen comrade, and the blood-soaked leader of his organisation.

Eventually, he spoke in a shaky voice.

"Should we send men after him?"

Micolash dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. Instinctively, the warrior stepped away, frightened that he too may be slaughtered by a plethora of cosmic limbs.

"There is no time for petty grudges. The new world awaits. We must make preparations."

The warrior nodded. "Should I send for the council?"

Micolash nodded. "All of them. It's time to assemble the Brain Trust one last time."

* * *

Gehrman looked back at the receding shape of Ya'Hargul. The nightmarish town looked even more ominous in the shade of the fading afternoon light, the gothic spires jutting upwards to pierce the last remnants of the sunlight. Remembering the horrifying creature that had been suspended just above his cell, Gehrman shuddered, before turning back to face his companion.

"You still haven't explained why you came for me."

The figure continued to stare up at the looming Cathedral silently, seemingly caught up in deep consideration. From the slumped shape of his shoulders, Gehrman could sense his wavering – his defeat. There was a melancholy in every movement that he had made – even his killing of the guards had been mindless and unconsidered. He was but a shadow of the man Gehrman remembered from mere weeks ago.

Getting no response, Gehrman called out again. "Ludwig?"

The Holy Blade finally turned to look at Gehrman. His face was solemn and deathly – where he had once been lit up with energy comparable to the rays of the moon, he was now eclipsed by sorrow. He was pitiful even to look at.

"You want to know why I helped you escape?" he said, voice completely devoid of emotion. "I did it because it's my fault you were there."

Gehrman's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

Ludwig nodded. "I betrayed you. I needed you out of the way so I could earn the respect of my men. But now I see that was a doomed cause from the very start. How could anyone respect someone so morally-compromised? The Church Hunters are better off without me – perhaps they will become knights of their own accord."

His confession should have been enough to rile up Gehrman, but the old hunter felt nothing at seeing his old compatriot break down.

"We're all guilty of something, Ludwig," he sighed. "My sins will stay with me until I'm six feet under the earth."

Ludwig nodded tiredly. "If I do one good thing in my life, then this is it. But, I'm afraid that's not the only reason I need you back in Yharnam, Gehrman."

The Holy Blade looked Gehrman straight in the eyes. In that moment, his remorse was replaced by something much darker – a bright burning hatred, powerful and committed unlike any Gehrman had ever seen.

"I need you to do what I can't," he explained.

"I need you to kill him."

* * *

 _\- Four Months Later –_

The man left the brothel in a delirious state. He had drunk so much blood that night that he could barely remember his own name, let alone the names of his wife and child, or the street upon which he resided.

He made it about five yards before he collapsed, tripping over an overturned railing, and sprawling out across the cobbles. A stream of crimson had already started to trickle out from beneath his leg, which he had slashed as he fell.

Nobody saw him go down, and nobody hear his drunken plea for help a few minutes later, as his mouth was pressed against the stone by a heeled boot, and his throat was slit by an ornate dagger.

His killer stooped down low next to the man, and pressed their lips to the wound upon his neck. The man struggled weakly for a few seconds, but quickly fell still, his skin slowly draining of colour and turning pasty and cold.

When it was over, the figure stepped away from the shrivelled corpse, wiping their mouth with a gloved hand. They replaced the dagger on their belt, and swept their cloak over their face, hurrying away into the night.

They didn't stop running until they reached Hemwick, stopping to catch their breath on the top of a grassy copse. It was then that they lowered their cloak, and let their blonde hair fall away to the sides of their shoulders.

Maria tried her hardest not to be overtaken by the primal pleasure that had begun to flood her veins like lighter fuel, but her resistance was futile. The foreign blood coursed through her, warming every cell in her body, and invigorating her with a frightful, impatient aggression, which she quickly worked off, slashing apart a nearby lamppost with two well-aimed swipes from her Rakuyo.

In time, others joined. The other members of the Cainhurst party were similarly energetic, some of them even carrying small jars filled with dark red fluid for later consumption. Maria spotted Victyr in the crowd. The Bloody Crow had chosen his targets very particularly – he carried the blood of two slaughtered Church hunters, whom he had exsanguinated with a clean cut from his ever-sharpened Chikage. He grinned wildly as they made eye contact, holding one of the jars aloft so that Maria could see the tiny dregs of coldblood inside the glass squirming about. The image was sickening, but Maria grit her teeth and tried to conceal her distaste.

Within an hour, the whole party had assembled, and they were greeted by a convoy of carriages from Cainhurst, here to bring them and their offerings back to the castle. Maria was forced to share hers with Victyr, on account of being royalty – eerily, he never let up his gaze throughout the whole ride. In spite of this, Maria turned onto her side and attempted to sleep.

When they arrived at Cainhurst, Annalise herself was there to greet them, surrounded by nearly a dozen blood-starved Cainhurst knights. She beamed at Maria as he stepped off of the cart, Victyr swift on her heels.

"Good hunt?" she asked.

Maria smiled weakly.

"I feel revitalised," she admitted.

"I'm not surprised," Annalise chuckled. "That Cainhurst blood in your veins seems to run more pure every day now. I trust you all brought plenty of gifts for me?"

Maria nodded. "Now, are you going to fulfil your side of the bargain?"

Annalise walked forwards, her guards following in perfect step with their queen.

"Of course," she smiled. "Victyr, come here, dear."

The Bloody Crow fervently rushed forwards, knocking aside a couple of smaller knights as they accidentally crossed his path. He came to a stop at Annalise's feet, and fell to his knees in front of her, offering his Chikage out in front of him as a gesture of his love and loyalty.

"Touch his shoulder," Annalise told Maria. The former hunter looked quizzically at her queen, but Annalise offered her nothing more. Composing herself, she tentatively placed a gloved hand on Victyr's shoulder plate.

Instantaneously, the Bloody Crow's head shot up, his eyes piercing through the visor of his helmet. Shaken, Maria pulled away, but Annalise grabbed her hand and placed it firmly back on Victyr's shoulder, where it started to tremble.

"Give him an order," the queen said softly.

Maria bit down on her lip to try and stop her quivering. Even in the midst of the flurries of snowfall, she felt passionate, churning warmth inside of her that was impossible to place. It was like she had a cask of fiery brandy fermenting inside her veins – the heat was unrelenting, but it didn't feel hostile. It felt natural. Slowly, she let the sensation flow through her, the last of her resistance ebbing away.

"Take off your helmet," she ordered, staring Victyr dead in his eyes for the first time since she had met him. "Now."

The Bloody Crow obeyed without hesitation, whisking off the metal headpiece and dropping it onto the snow-blanketed pave at his side. Maria smiled, turning to look at Annalise, who returned the gesture immediately.

"You see," she whispered. "You are a lady of Cainhurst. Every man alive would die for your favour. Now you can make those zealots in Yharnam see your true potential. You could have it all."

Maria's grin grew even wider, her glistening white teeth sparkling against the snowflakes in whistling in the air.

"Why would I go back?" she laughed. "Everything I need is right here."

Annalise took her hand and squeezed it tightly.

"That's my girl," she said. "Do you have any other requests for Victyr?"

Maria looked back at the Bloody Crow, still kneeling at her feet and gazing up at her earnestly. In that instant she recalled all the times she had crossed his path whilst walking the Cainhurst grounds – those awful, intense stares he had given her – and then reconciled those moments to the present, where he was sat doggedly at her feet, waiting for her every beck and call.

"Cut off your thumbs," she said coldly.

Victyr responded instantly, tearing off his gauntlets one by one and laying his hands flat on the icy ground. Without so much as a blink of hesitation, he took his Chikage and severed his left thumb, a fountain of crimson Cainhurst blood spooling over the frostbitten earth. Then he did the same to his right thumb, not even pausing to stem his wound. Both fingers now lying in a growing pool of blood at his feet, he gazed back up at Maria longingly, awaiting his next command.

Maria looked back to Annalise, who gave her an approving nod.

"It's been a long time since he did something impressive with those," she remarked. "He won't need them. Now, come. Let's feast."

"Indeed," Maria nodded, taking Annalise's hand and walking up the steps together.

Victyr gathered up his gauntlets and followed the duo into the castle grounds, leaving his blood-sodden fingers to be consumed by the rising tide of ice and sleet.

* * *

Gehrman peered out of the blinds.

Yharnam had been awoken with a bountiful sunrise, the dark streets lit up by a fierce yellow glow. The corpses of plague victims fallen in the night were left to bask in the morning sun until collection came around at noon, clearing the streets in time for the market stalls to be set up.

By all accounts, it was a fine day in Yharnam – or at least, as fine as anyone living there had come to expect at this point.

There was a ripe smell in the air. Stagnating blood is a scent that one does not soon forget, and even after weeks of imprisonment, Gehrman could still clearly recall the spoils of a nightly hunt.

Ludwig hadn't slept much. His eyes were lifeless – even more so than usual, and he didn't even bother to put on a fresh set of robes, instead coming to the table in the same crumpled set he had worn outside the previous day. He just nodded tiredly at Gehrman and sat opposite him at the table, setting down a plate of mouldy bread and a hardened lump of blue cheese.

"I had a thought about how we could draw him out," Gehrman explained. Ludwig looked up at him, only half-interested in what he had to say.

"Go on."

"Well, what if you pass a message up the chain of command that there are a group of League assassins coming to make an attempt on his life?" Gehrman continued. "You might not be close enough to him at this time to tell him yourself, but if you start a rumour of that calibre, you could start a panic amongst his whole infrastructure. He won't be able to just ignore it."

Ludwig took a sluggish bite from his bread. "And then what? You'll leap out from a corner and kill him whilst he's out in the open? Do you really think that'd work?"

Gehrman folded his arms. "I don't see why it wouldn't."

Ludwig shook his head. "Laurence is careless sometimes, but he's not stupid. If he thinks someone's out to take his life, he'll have every bloody hunter, giant and intelligentsia in Yharnam at his heel."

Gehrman sighed. "So, what? You were the one who told me that this needed to happen. And yet, every idea I come up with, you shoot it down instantly!"

Ludwig dropped his crust on the plate, and pushed it away, apparently no longer interesting in satiating his appetite. "Listen, and take heed; I know Laurence better than anyone. The man is a paranoid lunatic. And that was before he locked himself inside of his chambers day and night."

"How much damage can he realistically do from in there?" Gehrman asked. "Believe me, I agree that Laurence should die for his past actions alone, but he is of little threat to anyone now. He's dethroned, and he knows it. His whole religion of blood is falling apart. I mean, look at how he locked up the Cathedral Ward. He knows that there'll be people out for his life every day. Survivors of Old Yharnam – disillusioned clergy…His days are numbered if he puts a foot outside of his chambers."

"That may be so," Ludwig said, now staring out of the window absently. "But whilst he lives my sins can never be washed away. Do you know why I cannot do the deed myself? It's because I still believe in him, Gehrman. I still believe in what the Church can do. And yet, I see all the evil it has committed. I can't destroy it because it has made me a man – and yet I must, for it has made a monster of that man."

The Holy Blade looked at Gehrman, and the old hunter saw there were tears brimming in his eyes. "I am accursed, Gehrman."

Before either one of them could speak again, there was a knock on the door. Instantly, both men's gazes fell on their respective weapons, laid to rest by the fireplace.

"They've found us," Gehrman said.

Ludwig shook his head. "They already know I've been living here for months. Don't get worried just yet."

The Holy Blade rose wearily from his chair and crossed the room towards the door. Pulling it open, Gehrman saw several shafts of morning sunlight shoot across the floor, before a familiar voice spoke.

Gehrman got up immediately. "Logarius?"

Ludwig quickly shut the door behind the old hunter, gesturing him to come through. As his old battle compatriot entered the living room, Gehrman embraced him, wrapping his arms around the older man's tattered jacket.

"It's good to see you, Gehrman," Logarius said. "When I heard the rumours of your return, I grew very hopeful indeed. I thought that perhaps this town may yet be saved."

"I don't know about that," Gehrman said, smiling sadly. "What brings you here?"

Logarius' gaze fell, and Gehrman felt his sorrow emanate across the room like a pulse of energy.

"Are you okay?" Gehrman asked.

Logarius shook his head. "It's… John…"

"Your son?" Gehrman said, distantly remembering long-forgotten conversations with his fellow hunters, forever archived to the back of his mind.

"Not just him," Logarius went on. "His wife, and their two sons, too. Killed in the night."

Gehrman put his hand on the older man's shoulder. Ludwig, who had been watching the two quietly, spoke up. "By a beast?"

Logarius let out a tearful breath. "No. By men. Men from Cainhurst."

Gehrman's breath caught in his throat. "Cainhurst? The kingdom from beyond the mountains?"

"Why would they travel out so far from home?" Ludwig asked, now at least somewhat curious about the direction of the conversation.

"The rumours about those sick purebloods are all true," Logarius whispered softly. "They have stolen old blood from Cathedral Ward, and have used it to transform themselves into hideous creatures - hunters of men."

"How do you know this?" Ludwig asked. Gehrman shot him a look, which went completely ignored.

"Because I found the bodies of my family," Logarius replied. "They were drained of blood, shrivelled up like leaves. And I saw them fleeing the scene. Men and women bearing the symbol of Cainhurst Castle."

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, old friend," Gehrman said. "But, if you don't mind me asking, how does this concern me or Ludwig?"

Logarius slowly raised his head, eyes landing ponderously on the duo.

"I have assembled a group of old colleagues. Hunters, retired from the line of duty but still eager to do the right thing. I want you to accompany me, old friend. I need you to stop me from going over the edge."

"With all due respect, I think you're justified in going over the edge," Ludwig cut in.

Logarius nodded. "That may be so. Let me tell you something that shall remain true to the last. Acts of goodness are not always wise, and acts of evil are not always foolish. And yet, we strive to be good. This isn't about revenge. It's about preventing anything like this from ever happening again. Which I fear it will, if we don't put a stop to it."

"Why not involve the Church?" Gehrman asked. "I'm sure Laurence would be displeased if he heard about how his precious blood was being used."

"I have cut all ties with them," Logarius said. "They have lost their way, blinded by Laurence's ambition and greed. I can see that you agree."

Gehrman nodded slowly, processing his words. Then, he stopped, and looked sombrely at Logarius. "I'm sorry, old friend, but I have pressing matters to attend to here in Yharnam. I wish you the best of luck, but I cannot help you."

Logarius smiled sadly, and started to make for the exit. "I understand."

Just before he reached the door, he stopped, looking back.

"However, I did hear something else about Cainhurst that might be of interest to you."

Gehrman's head rose.

"They are holding Lady Maria as a prisoner."

* * *

A cold grey dawn had settled.

The clouds that gathered around the piercing spires of the Southern Mountains were thundering, brimming with an onslaught of hail. The very air was bitterly-cold, the ground beneath the feet brittle and icy, splintering at the slightest pressure.

And, in the distance, the dark, looming silhouette of Cainhurst Castle stood silent and still.

"If there was ever a place dedicated to the worst kind of evil…" Logarius muttered.

Gehrman nodded. "…This is it."

The duo looked out over the frigid valley, the long, tendril-like bridge leading towards the castle snaking towards them like a beckoning finger. Surrounding them was around fifty or so heavily-armoured hunters, clad in strange golden helmets. Logarius had offered the briefest of explanations for their peculiar headgear – something about 'protecting the flesh from their monstrous feeding.' Gehrman recognised some of the men as his own, but few of them seemed to be pleased to see their old commander. Many of these men had served under Gehrman during the purge of the fishing hamlet. As such, there was melancholy in the air, as well as unease - a frightful certainty that history was about to repeat itself.

"These are vile creatures," Logarius boomed. "Truly amongst the foulest of beings. But that does not mean we should take any pleasure in their annihilation. We shall not sink to their depraved depths."

"What are we but executioners?" one of the men said, voice resonant from beneath his golden Ardeo.

Logarius smiled sorrowfully. "Even executioners have their place. They keep us safe from those who would do us harm. Don't forget why we are here. This isn't about revenge – it is about keeping our loved ones safe."

A single tear rolled down the old hunter's leathery cheek. "Even when there is nobody left to save…"

Gehrman thought of comforting Logarius, but decided against it. His thoughts were already scattered enough, and he needed to try and find some essence of focus.

The Executioners began their trek across the bridge, treading carefully in their boots so as to avoid becoming stuck in the deep, white blanket that lay upon it. When they reached the other side, they stopped, as a group of around ten men appeared in front of them, swords drawn.

"Halt, state your business!" one of them cried.

Logarius stepped forward. "You are denizens of Cainhurst, correct?"

"Yes," the speaker responded. "Are you here to pledge allegiance to us?"

"No," Logarius shot back. "We're here to rain holy retribution down upon your brethren."

An eerie cackle that started as a lone voice and spread out quickly into an entire choir sounded across the bridge. The knights of Cainhurst stepped forward, now producing firearms and aiming them at Logarius and his party.

"Then come," the voice taunted. "Come and meet your doom."

At this, the legion of knights started to swarm across the bridge, a cacophony of tapping filling the air as their metal heels clacked on the icy stone. Gehrman drew his blade, taking a combatant's stance as the plethora of Cainhurst warriors came rushing forward to meet him. Beside him, Logarius produced a curved blade and a tall, jagged scythe, swiping both through the air to demonstrate their razor edges.

The two armies met, metal clashing upon metal. The Cainhurst knights were formidable opponents, swiping at the Executioners with finely-honed and somewhat-elegant swordsmanship. Several of Logarius' brigade fell in only a few blows, unprepared for the fighting style of their foes. However, the sheer numbers that that the Executioners possessed meant that the Cainhurst legion was soon overrun, their kin falling swiftly and bloodily. Gehrman himself killed two of the knights, hacking one's head off with his blade and spilling another's guts onto the pave with a well-aimed blast from his pistol. To his left, Logarius pounded another knight into the ground, their ornate armour proving no match for his powerful reaper.

When the last Cainhurst knight lay dead in the snow, Logarius turned to face his men, and let out a war cry.

"The first of this vile blood has been spilt! For the good of Yharnam, let these ice cold veins run dry!"

His speech was received well, with triumphant cheers echoing over the tundra for miles. Gehrman, now loading another quicksilver round into his gun, nodded to Logarius, who reciprocated the gesture, before starting to walk on towards the castle grounds.

The old hunter looked up at the towering stone fortress, trying hard not to picture how many more of these 'vileblood's there could be holed up inside.

"For you, Maria," he whispered. "For you."


	14. A Cold Day at Cainhurst

**Chapter Fourteen: A Cold Day at Cainhurst**

The first of the petrified shrieks shot through the open window.

Maria sat up like a bolt of lightning, her heart racing against the confines of her chest. Throwing her covers to the side and leaping off of her mattress, she heard another, a few floors down. Grabbing her Rakuyo, which lay peacefully at the foot of her bed, she pushed out into the corridor and started to descend the long spiral staircase.

At the bottom of her stairs, a group of Cainhurst nobles were gathered around a window.

"What's going on?" she asked.

One of them turned to her, their face twisting into a fearful gasp.

"The Church has come to Cainhurst," they whispered.

"What?" Maria's grasp on her blade tightened as she peered through the snow-capped glass and into the courtyard. The shimmer of the morning sun quickly illuminated a frightening visage. Streaks of fresh blood, still so wet that they glinted in the light, led all the way towards the building. A few corpses, smashed into an unrecognisable pulp, were strewn about.

Maria recoiled, a perfect storm of disgust and fury brewing inside of her.

"Those bastards," she snarled, rending her Rakuyo into two and sprinting towards the door. However, before she could pass through the threshold, she collided with a monstrous figure who was charging in from outside. The man was steeped in the red and sticky coat of his victims' gore, and at first glance, it appeared he actually lacked a head, although closer inspection revealed that the rusted pyramid he wore atop his head was some kind of ancestral helmet.

The beastly figure drew back at the sight of Maria. A deep voice resonated from beneath the metal. "Lady Maria?"

Nausea crept through Maria's body like the ghastly roots of a poisonous plant at the sound of her name. However, her surprise did not hold her in place for long, as she remembered about the bloodstains all across the man's garb.

Shrieking in a blaze of fury, Maria shot forward and stabbed the man through his chest with both blades of her Rakuyo. As his body convulsed, she planted her feet firmly upon the carpeted ground, and slowly lifted him off of the ground. Seeing him struggle wildly in the end of the blades, his life slowly draining away, she allowed the faintest of smiles to pass her lips.

"Who sent you?" she hissed. "Was it Laurence?"

The man spluttered, somehow exerting clear disgust in spite of his grave wounds. "I'll never tell you a thing, you filthy Vileblood."

Maria shook her head, before tossing the man's corpse against the wall with a grotesque amount of force, where it landed with a boom of crashing metal.

The nobles by the window were watching frightfully, many of them fixated by the blood of their brethren which ran down the invader's garb, his own now joining it in an almost serene river across the tiles.

"It's going to be alright," Maria assured them. "Just stay here. You'll be safe."

One of the group nodded quickly. From their rigid stances and petrified expressions, it seemed unlikely that any of them were going to move any time soon.  
Satisfied, Maria wiped down her blades on the carpet and headed out the door.

* * *

Fortunately for the Executioners, Cainhurst's defensive strategies were particularly underwhelming, and with the strength of brute force alone, the party quickly made it inside the castle grounds, slaughtering every combatant who dared stand in their way. It was clear that these knights were unaccustomed to challenge – there were no cannons, no trebuchets; no anything that could have been used to fend off an offensive from outside forces. They just possessed a rather large army, consisting of armoured soldiers of varying height and stature, all wielding the same armaments.

As Gehrman cut down another of these swordsmen, he started to look frantically around the castle grounds, gaze circling madly in the search for anything that could resemble a keep or gaol. There were many snow-cropped structures, but none of them stood out particularly.

A clank of metal behind him, and he turned, slashing through the jugular of an attacking knight. As their armour crashed into the snow, another came at him. And then another. And another.

And then, there was a resident of the Fishing Hamlet.

They were as dead as dead comes. Their eyes were rotten, set back in their sockets. Their flesh was grey and saggy, and came away in tatters like a snake shedding its skin. There was a gaping hole in the back of their skull, where an axe had been driven through.

Gehrman caught the scream at the back of his throat, where it started to burn away like acid. The phantom villager slashed out at him with their hook, but were suddenly cut down by a passing Executioner. The Chikage they had been wielding hit the ground with a clatter.

Gehrman blinked fiercely, banishing the torturous memories to the recess of his mind, where they belonged. However, that didn't stop him from seeing the Orphan of Kos just a few metres away, standing still and calm, eyes following him lifelessly. Head still upon its shoulders.

The old hunter tore his gaze away from the visage. He was just about to make for one of the smaller buildings when there was a loud roar, and he was sent barrelling to the ground by a blur of black. Crying out in shock, Gehrman rolled away with a mere second to spare as a warrior clad in black, feathered robes stabbed at the snow where his head had just been resting. Rising quickly, he dodged away as the Bloody Crow swiped at him again, before standing rigid and staring coldly at him. Gehrman watched the seething warrior closely, looking for some kind of weakness he could exploit.

He found none. From the corner of his vision, the Orphan continued to watch him.

"Where is Maria?" he shouted. The Bloody Crow tilted his head, and laughed cruelly.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he sneered, before leaping forwards, slashing horizontally with his Chikage.

Gehrman jumped away, retaliating with a flurry of strikes with his siderite brand. However, the Crow proved too quick to hit, evading each swing with a fluidity comparable to liquid. Before Gehrman could react, he had pulled out a sleek pistol and pointed it straight at Gehrman's head. The old hunter swerved in time to avoid a fatal shot, but felt his shoulder bone explode as a bullet smashed straight through it, showering the ice behind him in a flurry of red.

Gritting his teeth and groaning in pain, Gehrman limped back. He quickly produced a vial of blood from his coat and swallowed it down hungrily, letting its unholy warmth fill him. Instantly, the agony that was gnawing at his injured shoulder was alleviated, and he spun back around to face the Bloody Crow, adrenaline renewed. The Cainhurst knight was visibly unfazed by the recovery of his opponent, and simply reloaded his Evelyn, cocking the barrel in Gehrman's direction once more.

Inhaling deeply, Gehrman felt his whole body flourish with newfound energy, and he disappeared in a haze of white fog, rematerializing several feet forwards in the midst of a swing. The startled Crow choked back a snarl as Gehrman's siderite blade pierced his lower abdomen, a trickle of blood oozing out from the fresh wound. Before his opponent could find the time to recover, Gehrman withdrew the blade, and thrust it forwards again, this time forcefully impaling the Crow in the centre of his chest.

The Crow groaned and fell onto his knees, waiting for the final blow to come. Gehrman stared at his hands in disbelief, completely unsure as to how he had just transcended matter to attack his opponent. The Orphan's eyes bore into the back of his head.

Gehrman couldn't resist the urge to look around. Kos' undead offspring was smiling broadly at him, coarse grey lips pulled apart in a ghoulish expression. The hunter shuddered, pulling away and returning his attention to his fallen foe.

Lifting his brand up high, he readied the strike that would finish them off.

* * *

The Executioner brigade burst into the dining hall. As the old wooden doors were thrown violently open, a cold wind from outside flooded in, extinguishing all of the many candelabra that adorned the length of the wall. A few finely-dressed women turned their heads at the sight of the intrusion, their eyes widening and receding in pure terror.

Logarius gazed out over the table, and at the many glass goblets that occupied it.

Glass goblets filled with deep red liquid.

The old hunter steadied himself as his body was wracked by hatred – as frigid and unsympathetic as the blizzard outside the walls. The women at the table started to rise, backing out of their chairs as panic overwhelmed them.

"Kill them," Logarius said, voice a barely audible whisper.

His Executioners didn't need telling twice. They bore down upon the women viciously, drawing out knives and slicing their throats wide open. One of the women tried to pull away at the last minute, and her head fell clean off, the torso falling haplessly across the table and spilling the contents of many of the glasses.

Logarius looked out over the chaos as a familiar scent flooded his nostrils. The smell of red wine was hard to confuse, possessing a musky pungency that comes with a ripe age. The old hunter looked down at his fingers, his withered flesh caked in freshly-dried bloodstains. He could see the beginnings of a wispy red aura starting to surround him, and recalled for the first time the things he had witnessed in the midst of the hamlet massacre.

The crimson tinge clung to his men now the same way it had all those years ago. They were intoxicated with blood, and clung to death's foul form with a tender embrace.  
And yet, there was no mistaking the morality of their actions. All those who lived by the vileblood would die by it.

The next room – a wine cellar of sorts, stocked to the gills with enormous wooden barrels – concealed several cowering nobles, who all raised their arms in alarm as they were set upon by a barrage of armoured wheels, and smashed into pulp.

Logarius shut his eyes as the floor ran wild with red. He muttered a silent prayer to himself, pleading for their salvation, as well as his own.

After clearing out the banquet halls, the Executioners swarmed back out into the courtyard, leaving a neat trail of blood from their dripping armaments. Beneath a large archway, the last remnants of the Cainhurst army had attempted to create a road block, lining the stone cobbles with shields, mounted crossbows and a row of cages, all of which contained ravenous, shaggy black hounds. Without warning, the cages were torn wide open, and the canine massing was unleashed upon Logarius and his armada.  
Logarius grit his teeth as one of the dogs sunk it's teeth into his leg. With an angry growl, he spun round, slicing the hound's head clean off of it's neck. All around him, a chorus of pained yelps indicated the deaths of the other dogs.

As the last canine fell, their armoured owners charged in, swinging wildly at their adversaries. The Executioners wasted no time in cutting them down, rending their bodies into several pieces before disposing of the waste with a smashing from their wheels. When the carnage cleared, there was but one Cainhurst Knight remaining. The Vileblood, realising with a jolt of panic that he was now alone amidst a blood-soaked field of his dead comrades, fell to his knees, hands outstretched in a desperate plea for life. If he had surrendered like this in a knightly duel, he would have been put to death instantly. Mercy was not the Cainhurst way.

Unfortunately, neither was it the Executioner way.

Logarius himself stepped forward, hoisting the knight off of his feet with inhuman strength, and suspending him out in front of his men's eyes. His grasp on the knight's throat was inescapable, and made it impossible for any further blasphemies to escape his lips.

"Never again will your vile kin slaughter innocent lives," Logarius declared, hands tightening on the man's windpipe. With one sudden movement, the knight's face was illuminated in a red haze, his very bone visible beneath his flesh. As his skeletal mouth opened wide in a scream, Logarius threw the man aside, and the fog that had lit up his flesh was absorbed into Logarius himself, whose eyes fluttered with pleasure.

Ahead was the Royal Keep. There was nothing that could stand in their way now.

Time to end it.

* * *

Maria's blades cleaved through another Executioner. The murderous warrior spluttered and fell backwards, his armour clanking like a dustbin as his corpse rolled down the staircase. The young squire he had been attempting to brutalize looked up at Maria hopefully, climbing to his feet with barely-constrained agony.

"Here, take my blood," Maria exclaimed, rolling up her sleeve and cutting a small opening just below her elbow.

The boy's eyes lit up, and he started to limp towards her. However, his stumbling was cut short quickly when another pyramid-clad psychopath rounded the corner, and stabbed the boy straight through his eye socket with the shaft of his Kirkhammer.

Maria tore his eyes away as the squire fell, before her gaze landed vengefully on the Executioner. At the sight of Maria, they slid their blade into the blunt on their back, and hoisted their hammer onto their shoulder.

"I should've known that you would be one of them," they chided. "Even during the old hunts, you had a thirst for blood that verged on sickness."

Maria put one foot forward menacingly. "You have the nerve to label me as sick? Look around you. Look at the people you have murdered!"

The Executioner shook his head. "This is not murder. This is justice. And if you stand in our way, you are perverting that justice."

Maria leapt at the Executioner, who swung his Kirkhammer with both hands. The blunt smashed against the stone wall, showering both combatants with shards that scratched and tore at their clothes. Maria slid beneath the Kirkhammer's path of destruction, ending up behind the Executioner. He tried to turn around, but Maria stabbed him in the back with one of her blades, before kicking him forwards with a sharp push from her ice-coated boot.

The man fell onto his belly, his Kirkhammer falling feebly from his hands. Maria rolled him onto his back, and looked straight into his face, with both blades poised at his neck.

"Who is the real monster?" she asked. "The ones who defend their homes from savage invaders or the ones who savagely invade them?"

The Executioner laughed, heaving up blood all over the front of his garbs.

"That's funny," he spat. "I could ask you the same question."

The heroic defender of their clan and the vile monster who would seek to destroy them looked each other straight in the eyes, neither knowing one from the other.

Then, Maria drew both her blades across the man's jugular, and the life instantly flooded out of him.

Maria collected the man's blood on her fingers, sipping at it with her tongue. Instantly, new energy shot through her like a current, and she burst out of the garrison door and into the blizzard. A glance towards her old lodgings greeted her with an awful sight. The windows were shattered, the wood splintered, and the inhabitants – whom she had seen alive only half an hour ago – were lying in small heaps, features rendered into indistinguishable pulp.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling nothing but the flitting flurry of snow around her head.

She stayed like that for many minutes. The sound of combat across the way finally tore her gaze away, and seizing both blades in her hands, she gave chase.

* * *

Victyr started to laugh.

Gehrman's grip on his blade tightened at the very sound; chilling to the bone in a way that even the howl of a blizzard could never replicate.

The Hunter looked over his shoulder. A figure was approaching them through the snowstorm. Even in the low visibility, Gehrman recognized the way they held out their blades in an instant, and he felt a new flame flitter inside his chest.

"Maria!" he cried. "I'm here."

The figure waded in, until they were close enough to see clearly. Close enough for the blood around her lips to be visible.

Close enough for Gehrman's soul to split in half.

His eyes locked on her, his pulse stopping dead. His breath caught in his throat. There were no sounds but the rapid beat of his shrinking heart.

"Hello, old friend," Maria whispered. Her voice was tender, but with a serpentine menace that shot through him like liquid nitrogen. Even from across the way, Maria could see the bloodstains on Gehrman's garb. The blood of her people. Her family.

Gehrman opened his mouth, and let out a long, mournful sob. Maria watched him, eyes flecked with a childish curiosity.

"It's been a long time," she said. "In fact, I had consigned myself to solitude, accepting that I would, and could, never see you again. And yet, here you are, butchering my family."

"These monsters are not your kin. I don't know who you are anymore," Gehrman replied softly, trying desperately to wrench his gaze away, but with no success.

"I'm the same person I've always been," Maria retorted sharply. "You would've understood if you'd tried to talk to me. You know, we all went through the same ordeal that day. The same guilt. But you wouldn't even look at me, would you? So ashamed of your own pupil – your best friend…"

Gehrman's eyes fell towards Maria's leather-coated feet. "You were never just a friend, Maria… You are everything to me…"

"Then how could you abandon me like that?" Maria snarled. "I needed you there! I had done so many awful things; I hated myself for the monster I had let myself become, and you were content to let me suffer alone?"

"No," Gehrman sighed. "I stayed away from you not because I was ashamed of your actions…. I was ashamed of my own."

Maria bunched her fist. "I don't want to hear your excuses. I want to hear your confession!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Gehrman could see Victyr crawling away on his knees. He didn't try to pursue him.

"Then… I confess everything," Gehrman conceded. "I was weak, and selfish, and because of my actions I let you walk that path alone. I should never have done that. But… please, look at yourself. Look at these people! They're monsters, Maria."

The former Lady of the Astral Clocktower smiled sombrely.

"They're my family. And all I have left."

As soon as the last word had left her mouth, both Rakuyo blades appeared at her sides so quickly it was as though they had materialised from thin air. Gehrman watched the twin points glisten in the morning sunlight, already feeling them piercing his flesh and cutting out his heart long before they ever would.

"Do it," Gehrman urged. "I've been dead a long time."

Maria shook her head. "Not as long as I have."

Without so much as another breath to her old friend, Maria turned her blades inward, and plunged them hard through her ribcage. Gehrman screamed silently as a river of red ran from the gaping wounds, coating her Rakuyo in its crimson taint, the sanguine sizzling as it clung to the metal and coated it in an unholy flame that burned brightly even amidst the vortex of snow.

Maria looked over at Gehrman, tears brimming in her eyes. "Give it your all."

Gehrman half-heartedly raised his blade. "I have nothing left to give."

Maria ignored him and swung, her pirouetting blades arcing through the air. Each of her swipes had the full force of her ability behind them; there was no hesitance. Gehrman could see the desperation to spill his blood - the way he had spilled the blood of her kin.

It frightened him.

Despite this, there was very little danger to a veteran hunter like Gehrman. The streaks of flame left in sword's wake were enough to singe Gehrman's coat, but nothing else. Even with his apathy to battle, his exhaustion and his prior wounds (not even to mention his lack of both legs) he was still able to evade each and every one of Maria's strikes, weaving in and out and over and under every blow.

This was the power that love granted him.

As she spun to strike him again with both of her fiery sabers, he pulled out his pistol, and shot her in the left, and then right, arm in quick succession. Maria shrieked as her blood streaked out, her blades spinning away over the ice. As she wailed, Gehrman slowly walked forward, pressing his boot against Maria's chest, and putting her flat on her back in the snow.

"Not today, Maria," he declared. "Not today."

"I'll kill you," she whispered, eyes burning fiercely. "I'll kill you."

But, even as she said it, she knew she couldn't. Not anymore. Even as she lay there, back buried in the frigid earth, she felt the will to destroy flooding away into a cold nothing.

Gehrman could see it too. "You still have a lot to learn," he whispered.

Through a haze of pain, a sad smile crept onto Maria's lips. The hunter-turned Vileblood started to laugh, in spite of the steady blood loss from her elbows. It was clear to her that Gehrman wouldn't – or couldn't – kill her himself, which was a ridiculous notion to her, considering how she had been firm in her conviction to kill him only moments ago.

Something in her felt liberated, chains that had bound her from ever conceivable angle shattering under the brunt. After a quick deliberation, she realized what the sensation was.

It was relief. She was relieved because Gehrman had finally accomplished what she so strongly, yet unknowingly, desired.

He had stopped her.

"Well... you're still a fool," she grinned, moments before she blacked out.

* * *

Logarius himself separated from the slaughter in the Throneroom, approaching the Vileblood queen in a slow step that betrayed his reluctance.

Annalise chuckled, amused at the image of the pyramid-headed marauder approaching her feet. "Oh, be serious. Do you really think you can kill me?"

Logarius stared up at her, showing no sign of intimidation.

"Everybody dies," Logarius said calmly. "Today is your day."

Annalise shook her head, a cocksure grin tugging at the corners of her chapped lips.

"I don't think so…" she laughed, before producing a dagger, and slicing her own neck wide open in one clean arc.

Logarius leapt back as a spray of blood lurched outwards across the ground, hissing as it made contact with the earth, and leaving a small cloud of smoke.

Annalise shrugged, the opening in her jugular writhing with the rest of her flesh. Logarius fell to one knee, fighting the urge to vomit with every ounce of his will.

"Foolish humans," Annalise sighed, wincing slightly as her flesh weaved back together like cloth. "You never learn… Your thirst for blood… for violence… it is sickening… What my people do we do out of a necessity to evolve. To survive, and to continue the Cainhurst lineage. What you do is sport – slaughter for the sheer enjoyment of it. But this is one game you can't win…"

Logarius swallowed his repulsion and stood tall again. Both arms outstretched, he reached deep inside of himself, finding the immense power that was churning inside of him.

He felt the aura of death flood through him, each and every corpse – every single drop of blood – and channelled it through his flesh until it reached the surface of his palms, crackling with tension. Then, with a heavy grunt, he volleyed it at Annalise.

The Vileblood Queen shuddered as she was gnawed at by the phantoms of her fallen brethren, their lifeforce inverted into pure malignance. But moments later she raised her head and smiled crookedly. "Is that all you've got?"

Logarius grit his teeth and fell back, panting. A sound like a gust of wind caught his ear, and Logarius turned as a crow-feathered knight lashed out at him from the shadows in the corner of the room, their razor-sharp Chikage missing him by mere inches. The Bloody Crow of Cainhurst lunged again, swiping at Logarius in a fit of uncontrolled rage at the one who would bring devastation to his home, his people and his undying queen.

Logarius was too fast, however. He was swathed in the power granted by hundreds of Cainhurst corpses, and, at this point, his body was barely even constrained by the laws of physics. Phasing in between Victyr's swipes, he brought his scythe down several times against the Bloody Crow, before driving his sword through his side, and sending him sliding backwards along the throneroom floor.

"Wait."

Logarius held fast, quivering under the strain of a huge exertion of energy that seized his muscles in a vicegrip, and stuck him fast. Victyr, who had drunk a blood vial from his pockets, rose sluggishly. Annalise placed a single hand on his shoulder, patting him reassuringly.

"You're not going to die here, Victyr. You still have a mission."

Victyr sheathed his Chikage and nodded silently. With one last spiteful glance in the direction of Logarius, he took off, cleaving through a couple of Executioners on his way out. Logarius didn't bother to give chase.  
He turned back to face the immortal Queen of Cainhurst. Annalise slumped back in her throne – clearly, whatever force she had conjured onto Logarius had sapped the last of her strength.

Logarius smiled, in spite of himself.

"Now, what are we going to do with you?" he asked.

* * *

In the aftermath, the only living beings beside the Executioners and Annalise were the Vileblood's tiny manservants, who had remained committed to their tasks even in the midst of bloody combat. Now, they had buckets of water and sponges with them, and were passionately dabbing at the rivers of blood that ran all over the tiled floor.

At a glance, it seemed possible that they may complete their task in roughly ten years.

Gehrman, who was still recovering from the shock of seeing Maria, regained his composure quite suddenly at the sight of Logarius, sitting on his own on the middle of the rooftop adjacent to Annalise's throne room. Startled, he ran to his old friend's side.

"We're leaving," he said.

Logarius shook his head. "I can't. Annalise is immortal – and far too dangerous to be left alone."

"This isn't your fight anymore," Gehrman insisted. "Let the Church take care of Annalise."

"You know as well as I do that Laurence is in no state to assist us," Logarius sighed. There's nothing left for me in Yharnam. The least I can do with the last of my years is make certain that nobody can ever serve that beastly woman ever again. At least, not whilst I live…"

"Don't throw your life away over nothing," Gehrman urged. "Let us burn this forsaken castle to the ground!"

"No," Logarius insisted. "People have to know what happened here – the lives lost in vain. But you must destroy the bridge. Nobody can ever return here."

Gehrman locked eyes with the old hunter and finally relented; feeling yet another fraction of his soul break off and dissipate, he stood up, clasping Logarius's shoulder, before turning toward the exit. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two Executioners pulling Maria to her feet, one of them placing their sword at her throat.

"No, we bring her back alive!" Gehrman barked, causing the man to drop his blade in alarm.

"But she's a Vileblood!" the man protested. "Her filth must be purged from this eart-"

"She is my friend!" Gehrman roared. "And this time, I'm going to be by her side, no matter what!"

His words seemed to cause something of a stir in the half-conscious Maria. Her head, lopsided and blanched white with blood loss from her now-bandaged hands, seemed to follow Gehrman as he strode past, a new determination in his step.

Outside, the snowfall had come to an abrupt stop, and all that remained in the morning breeze were tiny specks of ice, caught in an updraft from the valley below.

The road ahead was clear - for the first time in days, if not weeks.

And Gehrman's mind, clouded in dark by the sins of his past, was clearer for the first time in years.

* * *

He watched them.

He watched them enter the chambers carrying huge flagons of freshly-drained blood.

He watched them leave the chambers some twenty minutes later, empty flagons in tow.

But they didn't see him. From his position on the outside ledge, he could see all the comings and goings of Laurence's chambers, without running the risk of becoming one himself.

There were only five bodyguards outside his quarters that evening. It was considerably less than the previous night, and bode well for what was to come.

Ludwig raised his luminous blade in front of his face, pressing his clammy forehead against its cool steel flesh. He felt its radiance flow through him, power so intense and untamed that it seemed to grasp at him possessively, eager that none else should claim him.

"My guiding moonlight," he whispered. "Guide me one last time."

Ludwig let the blade fall against his side, fingers curling around its hilt.

On his way here he had had so many doubts. So much resilience, in spite of his faith in the knowledge that this needed to happen. But he couldn't wait for Gehrman to finish playing hero – Yharnam would never sleep well whilst its auteur continued to breathe.

He watched two of them step outside to have a cigar break. He watched the remaining three take up new positions, blocking off Laurence's chambers from every angle.  
He watched their faces light up with terror as he plunged shoulder-first through the stain glass window, descending onto the carpet in a hail of broken glass.

"One last hunt," he thought, as he drove his blade through the first man, and felt their blood, warm like candlewax, seep across his fingers.

One last hunt.

With a grunt and a hard, well-aimed swing, he carved open another of the guards, their blood spewing across his robes with a simmering splatter. The sight of the gore, holy as his own blade, lit something within him. A darkness, sickly and depraved, coursed through him, warming him from toe to brow, and he started to chuckle. At first, it was but a whisper, barely audible, but with every successive drop of blood he spilt, it grew louder, and more deranged.

As the last guard fell, his chortles were loud like thunder, and twisted away from anything recognisable as human. A more artistic mind may have described the sound as a demented whinny, spewed from the mouth of a nightmare steed.

The accursed hunter pushed open the doors, and swept in, dripping freshly-spilled blood in his wake.

The chambers were plunged in darkness, and a deathly still hung over the place like an ever-watchful eye. As Ludwig crept forwards, a murderous glint in his eyes, a voice beckoned to him from the shadows.

"And a good evening to you, my faithful blade."

Laurence's dulcet tones were unmistakable, but there was a rough edge to them now – a deeper, primal inflection that wiped away all od Ludwig's bravado with a shudder.

A figure was sat beneath the window. In the faint light, Ludwig could see their silhouette, misshapen limbs sprawled out beside them, and a coarse, wispy hair that came out a good inch from their flesh.

"Laurence?" Ludwig called.

The figure made a quiet sound – perhaps a grunt, or a sigh – and rose out of their chair. As the light crossed their body, towering at nearly nine feet tall, Ludwig caught a glimpse of a pair of hideous, gnarled claws, and readied his blade, nausea washing over him in a great surge.

"I fear I may have lost all resemblance to that great man," he said, the vicar's trademark calm giving Ludwig trembling palpitations. "Have you come to slay me, like all your other beasts?"

Ludwig tried to reply, but no words would come off of his tongue, dry and thick like a wad of butter. His whole body stiffened.

"Lost your nerve? Or is it, that after everything I have done, you find yourself unable to cut me down? Ah, no matter. I can hardly blame you. Sickness is a difficult thing to face."  
Laurence stepped forward until he was right in front of Ludwig. The sight of him up-close was nearly enough to send Ludwig into a fear-induced fit.

"But we are still holy men," the beast proclaimed, its frayed fur trailing around its bovine-like horns as it spoke. "I have a duty to my people to face sickness without fear. To lead, in times of darkness, where light is a frail thing that scarcely shows its face. It's not all bad, you know? Once you get over the ghastly appearance, you can really marvel at the prowess it gives you. Observe."

The beast that spoke with Laurence's voice shot out both claws, piercing Ludwig through the chest, and lifting him off of the ground without any discernible strain. Ludwig writhed like a beached whale, his own mortality flashing before him in a manner most unholy.

"Please," he gurgled. "I can give you Gehrman. You want Gehrman, yes?"

Laurence stared hard at him for a couple of seconds, his jet black pupils pressed down on Ludwig's struggling form. Then, he broke out in a vile, fanged grin.

"We have no need of Gehrman. Not any more. But, even if we did, we know exactly where he is. Where he has been for the past few months."

The accursed hunter, drunken with blood and sobered by terror, barely felt the pain as his chest was wrenched apart, his bones splintering and breaking, and his own blackened blood spraying over the silk carpet.

"I really wish you could've stood by my side, Ludwig," the beast continued, as it watched the life slowly drain out of it's young protégé. "But you have proven that you are too short-sighted. You lack my vision. My eyes."

Ludwig let out one last enfeebled whimper, before Laurence ripped him clean in half, and threw him aside. With a low growl, the beast sipped at the blood on his claws, eyes fluttering at the potency and wealth of the Holy Blade's life. Upon the floor, the old holy sword glimmered one last time, before Laurence's deformed shadow stepped over it, and eclipsed its bright light once and for all.

The Cleric Beast returned to his seat, letting the rays of starlight bathe his leathery skin once again. Below, his city slept, waiting patiently for his guidance.

"And you shall have it," the beast whispered, cackling softly to himself. "I will make you see as I have seen. I shall grant you eyes."


	15. Bad Moon

**Chapter Fifteen: Bad Moon**

 _"I hate the moon—I am afraid of it—for when it shines on certain scenes familiar and loved it sometimes makes them unfamiliar and hideous."_

 _\- H.P. Lovecraft, What the Moon Brings_

* * *

Master Willem rocked gently in his seat. Below him, the moonlit lake swilled gently, the luminous waters splashing gently against the algae-clad rocks which converged at the foot of the bridge.  
Beside him, the Byrgenwerth spider, once one of its students, nestled quietly, all of its many, many eyes fixed upon the moon, which hung heavy in the sky that night.

There was something strange about the moon that night; not that Willem would know it, of course. Even without his blindfold, the old schoolmaster had started to lose his vision many months ago, and the world surrounding him had grown foggy. Not that this was any great loss to Willem, who had long forsaken interest in the world. What had once appeared lush and green, crisp and brown, and crystalline blue, was dull and lifeless.

Only one vision concerned him now – the colour pallet of the cosmos.

The sky was orange, the clouds bloated with heavy foreboding. Where they parted, broken away in vicious curves, was a full moon, shining luminously against the night sky.  
Only it was red – bloody like a newborn child, so brightly sanguine it actually hurt to look at for too long.

Rom gazed at the moon – the great, angry eye of the cosmos – and felt afraid.  
A creeping, unrelenting fear that doesn't let up even when you look away. He was not as insightful as he had once been, knowing only the most primal instincts, but he knew that this moon was a very, very bad thing.

* * *

On a hilltop several miles away, Caryll too looked up at the blood moon, pondering its meaning; recalling old apocryphal tales about the end of the world, and mankind's final judgement. He couldn't help but remember how Willem had been so fearful of the cosmos and its spell over humanity.

Caryll remembered that even then the old man seemed to be slipping away. If only he had been more willing to accept matters, then perhaps he could have saved Byrgenwerth's research. Steered it in the right direction – helped to prevent occurrences like this from happening.

But he knew such torturous thoughts were pointless. Nothing could undo what had happened, or the choices that had been made. And it was better that way. Nobody should have that much power.

As Caryll sat, cradling his Rune of Guidance and letting its soft, comforting voice whisper in his ear, he stopped. He tilted his head in the direction of the sound. It was faint, but unmistakable.

A baby's cry.

Caryll listened for several moments, but he couldn't hear the infant's wail any longer. It had been fleeting – so swift in its arrival and departure that at first he was certain it was a mere hallucination. But then, he looked up at the sky – at the crimson moon, evanescent and striking – and he knew that it was real.

He cradled his rune closer to his chest.

The cosmos were a strange place.

* * *

As two long-lost Byrgenwerth scholars gazed up at the moon, several miles away across the evergreen forest canopies, tangled amongst the twisting, cobbled streets of Ya'Hargul, a tall, bulky spire jutted up into the wispy, clasping hands of the orange sky. Within it, cradled in the top window and gazing out across the entirety of the town, Micolash stood proud.

The coming of the bloody moon meant only one thing. Mergo had accepted their request for contact.

Of course, he had expected as much. It was plain to see just how much the School of Mensis had accomplished whilst in the cradle of the Great Ones. How far they had taken their omniscient knowledge, and developed it – improved upon it.

Now, Mergo, the child of Formless Oedon and heir to the power of the Great Ones, beckoned her infant finger to Mensis. She would grant them radiance, elevate them to a higher plane of knowledge.

To greatness.

Micolash caught the gaze of one of his slumbering acolytes. The spindly, insectoid-like Amygdala, a refraction of the Great One itself, looked up at him with evident admiration. The first human to have levelled the playing ground. The human who had rose the intellect of humanity onto the pantheon of greatness.

"It is a fine evening for communion," he said, to nobody in particular. Below him, Ya'Hargul watched, and waited.

Turning around so sharply that his neck jarred slightly against the Mensis cage upon his shoulders, Micolash looked out over the gathering at the table. The Brain Trust.  
Seeing all of their eager, enlightened faces reminded Micolash that he had spared no expenses in the assembly of this council. Scouring the land for the brightest and open-minded men and women had been a long and arduous task, but tonight, it would finally pay off.

"Thank you all for coming," Micolash began, beaming. "Tonight's agenda, if it was not clear enough, is the establishment of the new world order. Mergo has granted us audience, and we are on the verge of ascension. But, we mustn't, in our rapture, forget why we sought this new order."

The last sentence was met with a chorus of shaking heads. Micolash smiled. He had chosen like-minded individuals with good reason.

"In this new order, there will be no violence," he expressed. "No ill will. No envy, greed or lust. Our bodily desires are just that. They have no bearing on the liberty of our minds."

No doubt, some of the Trust would see to obtaining closure on the majority of these bodily desires before communion came at midnight. Micolash wasn't entirely pleased by this knowledge, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. They were human still, after all.

"Furthermore, the new world order will need leadership," he declared. "And, seeing as how I have led you proudly into the dawn of this new era, I see no cause for a debate on who should fill such shoes."

There was noticeable ambivalence towards this amongst the assembly. Some had clearly thought that the astral plane would be free of politics and all of the unnecessary conflict that arose from it, whilst others were seemingly riled by the prospect of a leadership assumed by Micolash, with a select few of them believing themselves to be more suitable candidates.

Micolash ignored them all the same. "Now, as we are all aware, there is a force that seeks to annihilate Mergo, and, by extension, our collective. This being covets Mergo's power all for itself. And, as we are all aware, when the moon is fullest, this being is at the height of its power."

Determination swept through the faces in the crowd, replacing the brief emergence of something pitifully resembling concern.

"This... presence, has taken many forms. It has acted through human parties many times, and is likely to do so again in these final hours of vulnerability."

One of the scholars spoke up. "Are we expected to fight? For, I cannot even hold a sword, let alone use it."

There was a mumble of consensus in the crowd. Micolash raised his arms to silence it.

"In a most desperate situation, yes. But I can assure you with a 99% probability rate, that this will not happen. We are more than equipped to fend off these invaders."

* * *

At the very moment that Micolash finished his sentence, a mile or so away, on the outskirts of Ya'Hargul, one of his black iron warriors was stabbed from behind, a long thin sabre pushed through the centre of his back until it protruded from his front.

The Choir Intelligentsia who had struck calmly withdrew his sword, and pushed the corpse away. His party, consisting of twenty or so of the late Zephyr's best swordsmen and arcane specialists, stepped forward, their black boots stomping through puddles of thick, muddy water that had pooled in the concaves of the ground.

One of them, a rookie of two months named Gregory, paused to gaze up at the full moon, which seemed to be dripping brightly-coloured blood all across the sky.

"This is it, isn't it?" he said softly, the faintest traces of melancholia in his enunciation. "The end of days?"

His comrade, a fierce young brunette named Veronika, shook her head firmly.

"Only if you let it, Gregory."

He nodded at this, remembering where he was and who he was with. "You're right, of course. This is no time for resignation."

He barely finished his admission before another group of ironclad warriors came sprinting out of the shadows in an adjacent alley. One was swinging a Threaded Cane, the hard, serrated metal grazing the sides of neighboring brickwork with a terrible hiss.

Gregory found his bell in the heat of the battle, fingers closing shakily around its wooden handle. He pealed it several times with the side of his other fist, letting its healing chime ring out across the battlefield, whilst praying inwardly that he would not fall foul of an attacker's blade.

Within minutes, it was over, with no friendly casualties. Gregory saw Veronika stooped over one of the attackers, a long, coiled tendril thrusting out from the palm of her hand and coiled around the man's throat. The image sickened him, and in that moment he treasured the fact that he had been given a support role, and had not, as he had once hoped, been deemed suitable for arcane manipulation.

"This way to Mensis," Veronika ushered, after stopping briefly to sponge the blood off of her hands.

The party passed under many arching streetlights and through several rusted iron gates, but eventually they reached a long, open stretch of pavement, shadowed by a large bridge that crossed overhead. Two of the Intelligentsia were sent ahead to scout out the corners, but after a few minutes neither returned, and the rest of the party moved tentatively forward, weapons drawn at their hips.

A painful silence descended over the proceedings, and as Gregory stepped across the corpse of a small child, lying sidelong with open and vacant eyes, he felt unease creep through him like cold sludge.

Suddenly, there was an awful screech, like something out of a nightmare, and a huge black mass shot out of one of the darkened alleys, striking one of the women at the front of the advance. She screamed as the mucus-like gunge coated her body, searing her clothes before devouring her flesh. Gregory saw the whites of the woman's bones and fell to his knees, gagging.

He heard another banshee wail and rolled onto his stomach, pleading with every god he knew to save him from such an agonising fate.

All around him, his comrades were falling. He caught flashes of ghoulish images – flailing skeletal limbs protruding out of crates, like some kind of old child's toy, weaponized by the dark hearts of men.

More of the sticky substance was flung about, some of it splattering on the ground inches away from Gregory's head, and sizzling against the sodden touch of the wet pave.

He heard deep, resonant sobbing, which he quickly realized was his own.

And then, it was over, and he was being pulled to his feet by Veronika, a stern expression on her face.

"Ring the bell, sage!" she hissed. Nodding, Gregory raised the silver bell with a clank and let it ring out over the blood-soaked street.

Gregory saw many, many dead bodies lying about. At least twelve of his party had been slaughtered by the frightful creatures, several of which were strewn about, giant holes letting light through their peculiar hides.

"What... Are those things?" he managed to whimper.

Veronika pursed her lips. "I haven't a clue. But they're dead now. And we still have a mission to accomplish."

Gregory nodded again. But he wasn't so sure that he had anything left to accomplish, besides cowering in a tavern somewhere.

Up ahead was a small courtyard. At the top of a small flight of stairs was the entrance to the Mensis meeting building.

The last remnants of the party hobbled through the arch and down into the courtyard. Up above their heads, the scarlet moon shimmered boastfully, mocking the deaths of their brothers and sisters.

Gregory heard them first. The bells.

He glanced at his own just to make sure he wasn't imagining things. But there they were, pealing across the narrow, enclosed walls of the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye, Gregory saw slight, gangly figures positioned around the tops of the walls, reaching out with thin, emaciated limbs. But, before he could point them out to anyone, the first of the black clouds had come rolling in.

The darkness obscured the moon as more and more wispy shadows clutched together above their heads, weaving together and shifting into a new shape.

A hole.

And, from the void, a fleshy red mass had started to emerge.

Veronika seized up, tensing as a bulky, writhing thing started to pull itself out of the hole in the sky, trickling wet with foul-smelling liquid that hit the earth with a soft pitter-patter. She clutched a ball of arcane energy close to her side, poised to barrage the unholy abomination as soon as it was completely revealed.

The thing, whatever it was, was gigantic. As it flopped out of the hole, and began a swift descent to the ground, its full body was exposed, and, at nearly twenty feet long and at least thirteen tall, it towered over the Intelligentsia.

The monstrous being met the earth in a shower of grime, a heavy, wet thud reverberating out across the streets of Ya'Hargul, its new home. Slowly, it prised itself off of the ground, sickly fluid dripping off of its grotesque and spindly limbs.

Gregory swallowed the bile that had risen to his throat, and pressed his fingers hard against his temples to try and dull the dizzy pain that the visage of the creature had provoked. The thing that stood before him defied description. It was not a body, so much as many, many bodies, all overlapping and melting into one another. Legs trailed out from its bottom, all kicking as though each one aspired to gain a life of its own. Atop the whole, writhing mess was a torso, back arched erect.

Veronika froze, feeling the layers of her mind peel away like the skin of an onion as she attempted to comprehend the ghastly sight before her.  
The hesitation was all it took. The beast swung a thick, meaty arm out at her and a few of the other Intelligentsia. Gregory didn't see her die – she was there one minute, and gone the next, the void filled only by the crunching of her bones as the creature broke her into many, many assorted pieces.

Gregory tried to back away, but his legs had gone to mush, and he ended up on his back, staring right up at the nightmarish creature as it leered over him.

There was a moment. Recognition, of all things, in the heat of the chaos.

He hadn't been there, but he had heard the stories. And, as the thing drew nearer, and he saw the sear marks on its conjoined flesh, he knew that he wasn't mistaken in his revelation.

He barely had the chance to scream as the reincarnation of Mother Kos, and the inhabitants of the burned down Fishing Hamlet, crushed him into pulp, and absorbed him into their festering congregation.

* * *

Across town, beneath the wavering candle light of the old Hypogean Gaol, another party of Intelligentsia had nearly breached Ya'Hargul's walls, when they stopped.  
Ahead, half-buried in the dark soil, something enormous was stirring.

One of the men started shooting wildly at the beast, which was slowly scrabbling to its feet. The bullets, glistening in the faint glimmers, pinged off of the thing's skeletal frame, chipping away at the marrow, but barely affecting the beast at all.

With a faint growl, Paarl rose from his grave.  
His eyes, long worn away and now nothing but hollow gauges, peered out at the group of white-cloaked men. Intruders. Letting out a piercing wail, Paarl arched his back, his spine tingling slightly as waves of blue lightning coursed through his core, crackling as the current weaved through his bones.

The ensuing conflict did not last long. Paarl, enhanced far beyond human ability, cut down the invaders effortlessly, slicing them into fine bloody ribbons with his razorblade claws. When he was finished, he fell back on his hind legs, and gave out a triumphant roar.

Such slaughter would have made Archibald proud. Paarl had, truly, surpassed every one of his expectations. A glorious creation, for certain.

Unfortunately, the old doctor was no longer around. Paarl missed him, sometimes so much that he completely forgot that it had been him who had ripped him apart and trounced his remains into the earth.

Satisfied with the spillage of trespassing blood, Paarl settled down, and fell into a light snooze.

* * *

The evening was still.

As Gehrman watched, hands clinging gently to the railings of the grassy balcony, a swarm of local Yharnam bats flitted past, visible only for the briefest of moments before their dark forms were obscured by the gloom once more. Just like the bats, Gehrman had become one with the night – his robes, now ragged from years of abuse, were synonymous with the setting sun, and with the hunts, which rarely concluded before the first light of dawn the next day.

Gehrman sighed wistfully. He always looked forward to the dawn.

Behind him, the Astral Clocktower sat in shadow. The ornate silver arms sat rigid, the old wooden floorboards alive with migrating insects, paths carved out by the blades of moonlight which pierced through the glass windows. Somewhere in the darkness, Maria sat, resting. She had practically collapsed in his arms after all the hours of travelling. She may have slept for a week, which would have been preferable to Gehrman, who wasn't anywhere close to finding the right words he needed to explain himself.  
To express his feelings.

To make sense of a future that was shrouded in uncertainty – a mountain spire cloaked with clouds.

Below him, hundreds of metres down, clusters of flickering yellow lights, each as individually insignificant as an ember in a hearth, indicated a mass movement of people in the streets. Gehrman needed only to watch their frantic, erratic movements to discern the unrest that they felt.

It seemed that Laurence was quickly losing the favour of his people.

Beyond the flitting fireflies, in the distance, he could make out the faint shape of trees. The old woods that led to Byrgenwerth had changed very little, and the recognition of this endurance – rare in such tumultuous times - filled Gehrman with an inexplicable pleasure.

Not for the first time, he longed for the old days. The simple days. When he was young, unburdened, and quite unaware of the inescapable scent of stagnating blood.

He had slept so well back in those days.

Not for the first time, Gehrman wished that turning back the clock was as simple as it sounded. He pictured the old clock face only twenty feet away, imagined himself wrenching back the hands. Several hundred thousand revolutions should do.

Before such thoughts could torture him further, he heard a crunch behind him, and came face-to-face with a disheveled, pale Maria.

"Maria, you should rest," he insisted.

She shook her head. "Sleep is no comfort to me. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the red snow again. I would rather remain awake."

Gehrman nodded his head, understanding completely; trying to purge the guilt. "I have forsaken sleep altogether. Lest I return to the catacombs... Or the hamlet."

Maria let out a long sigh. "My mind is always with the hamlet. The things we did there... They'll haunt me to my grave. I only wish I could go some way to making recompense for that day... But I can't."

Gehrman reached a hand out to comfort her, but Maria stepped back, recoiling from his touch as though it were a thrusting knife.

"We were enemies not a day ago," she whispered. "Nothing's changed. I'm not ashamed of my association with them."

Gehrman nodded. He accepted that. He didn't care.

"Maria," he whispered. "We have so little time left. I want to spend it together. The way it should have been before. Forget allegiance, forget sin. Let us start again with a clean slate; turn back the clock."

He bowed his head, losing his nerve, before straightening up and looking Maria straight in the eyes. "I love you."

Maria shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. "How can you love me? I'm a monster. A monster that has done wicked things..."

Gehrman smiled, disbelieving. As though he'd never heard anything so ridiculous in his life.

"And I haven't? I've committed the worst of crimes. Shed buckets of blood. I am wicked, just as you are wicked. So, let's be wicked together. Somewhere far, far from here."

Maria stopped retreating. Her body involuntarily leant forward, heart pounding against her chest, desperate for escape. As Gehrman closed in, she numbly reached for him, hands closing around the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.

"I love you too," she whispered, before planting her lips firmly against his.

Gehrman pushed against her. He felt the warmth of her flesh on his – the gentle touch of breath from her nostrils. She smelt like a meadow – white flowers, all in bloom. Their mouths moved in perfect harmony, their hands clasping together and running across their shoulders, their hips.

Still tangled in each other's embrace, they collapsed onto the cold ground, the untended greenery clutching at their bodies as they undressed, tossing their clothes aside.

Gehrman's lips ran down Maria's chest. He felt scars, both old and new, and wondered how many of them she had gotten whilst fighting side-to-side with him. He sensed her pain, both bodily and emotional, and tended to it. His mouth closed around her breasts, his nostrils drawing deep, taking her in.

Maria's fingers traced the thick muscle of Gehrman's arms. She visualised the years of combat that had transformed a skinny young scholar into a soldier. As his hands brushed over her shoulders, she pictured the many lives that they had taken, and wondered, with breathless trepidation, if she would be their next victim.

Gehrman held Maria. Maria held Gehrman.

And together, as they had many times before, they weathered the night.

* * *

In the afterglow, Gehrman lay awake, lost in thought.

He started to picture Laurence. The thing he'd promised he would do, for the better of Yharnam.

Up above, the cosmos was calm. Even the moon, demonic in appearance, appeared to be settled for now. The sky, a poisoned shade of purple, had seemingly accepted the fate of things, and had nestled in for a prolonged but painless death.

He thought of Willem. Caryll. Archibald. Micolash. Ludwig.

All the people that Laurence had trampled on to get what he wanted. The vicar had sought reverence, and through that, power, turning a blind eye to the rot that he had set off beneath his own feet.

Ludwig was right. He had to go.

'And yet,' he thought, as he stared at his coarse palms under the moon's crimson glare. 'I have taken so many lives in the name of a better tomorrow. The beasts. The hamlet. Cainhurst. What if my interference has changed the world for the worse?'

He relinquished the thought. There were no answers here.

He rolled over, glancing at Maria's sleeping husk. She was peaceful – something he hadn't known for many, many years.

Rising wearily, he got dressed – quietly, so as not to wake her.

Dark clouds were gathering over Ya'Hargul. Gehrman decided that he would steer well clear of the demented citadel, and with the kind of determination that one can only attain in the late hours of the evening, he set off toward the elevators.

Maria, who had only been feigning a tranquil slumber, rolled over, and watched him leave through grainy eyes.

* * *

"Master Laurence?"

The servant trembled as he raised a fist to hammer upon the old vicar's hallowed door. He, like the rest of the clergy, had heard the rumors of Laurence's beasthood. He had seen, with his own eyes, the gallons of blood that was regularly transported to this very spot. If there was any truth to the claims, he was about to find out. Few had seen the vicar since his speech on the wall of Old Yharnam and, judging from the riled-up crowds gathered outside the gates of Cathedral Ward, people were eager to see him again.

If not for any good reason.

"Enter!"

The servant recoiled from the sound. Deep and throaty, it resembled Laurence's hypnotizing tones very little. Tentatively, the servant opened the door, stepping over the threshold into a room swathed in gloom.

The first thing he heard was the breathing. Raspy, guttural; angry. It was coming from the corner of the room, where the great window had looked out over Yharnam – before it had been boarded up, its light obscured completely.

There was something – something huge – standing there.

The servant tried to speak, but his words were indecipherable; a tangled mess of nerves.

"Speak up, I can hardly hear you," the thing growled, stepping forward with a heavy thud that splintered several of the surrounding floorboards.

The servant stood rigid, inhaled, and tried again.

"The men from the Choir that we sent to Ya'Hargul have... Have not returned, sire."

The thing in the corner gave a little grunt, dismissing the notion with a lumbering wave of its gigantic, gangly arms.

"No matter - let Mioclash play with his toys. We have what we need. The third Umbilical Cord from Gehrman's old workshop will grant us communion with the presence of the moon, Flora. The end of the world as we know it is upon us."

The servant stood idle, uncertain of what to say. His thoughts, scattered like dust in a tornado, suddenly focused on his old tabby cat. He wondered, as though it were the most important thing in the world at that moment, if he had remembered to feed her.

The thought disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived, as Laurence ambled out of the shadow.

It seemed that the rumors were all true. Yet, even through all of that beastly hide, shrouded in shaggy black hair, Laurence retained an air of importance. The servant felt his back straighten up, completely of its own accord. A task he would have assumed impossible on account of how paralysed he felt.

"It really was thoughtful of you to bring me some sustenance," Laurence cooed, leaning forward on the backs of his gnarled claws. "I have spent many months consolidating my strength, and now, on the eve of my victory, I am hungrier than ever.

The servant dallied, confused. "Sire, I'm afraid to say I have not brought you anyt-"

Laurence cut him short, lunging forwards and clamping his jaws around the servant's neck. It was over in a matter of seconds. Very little blood was spilt.

The grisly vicar ran his tongue over the spattering of blood around his mouth. The coarseness of his flesh was still something he was unaccustomed to, but the taste, fresh, wet and sickly, was divine. He felt the boy's strength, however unfulfilled, seeping into his own. His skin tingled with delight – a warmth so alluringly intense it was comparable to sacred flame.

His eyes, ever brighter than before, landed upon the open door. A grin crept up his scaly lips.

"I have been long away," he declared. "But tonight, I shall return to my city. I shall return to my people. And they shall have blood."

* * *

The hall was alive with activity.

Micolash's chest swelled with pride as the entirety of his prized council took their places around the room, Mensis cages firmly placed upon their shoulders.

Preparations were complete. It was time for communion.

For ascension.

He watched as a pair of acolytes brought forth a small, ivory box with ornate silver gildings, and placed it gently upon the floor in the centre of the room. With a tenderness comparable to the affection of a parent, one of the acolytes prised open the box, and wound the small handle fixed to its side.

Quietly at first, but then louder and louder with each passing second, the music box began to play. The song was chilling – a haunting melody performed by the Choir who, on this rare occasion, lived up to their name somewhat.

As the lullaby filled the room, Micolash closed his eyes, and spoke in a hushed voice.

"Majestic Mergo, heir to the Cosmos, and daughter of the Formless Oedon. Can you hear our prayers?"

There were no sounds to be heard in the chamber other than the elegant aria of the music box. Undeterred, Micolash continued with his recital.

"Oh boundless Mergo, hear our prayers. Accept our gifts, command our souls."

At this, both of the acolytes who had carried the music box drew out knives and cut cleanly across their own necks. There was no hesitation; as their bodies slumped forward, their life spilling out around the chiming box, their faces remained firm and set, eyes fixed on the wall blankly.

Micolash raised both arms in the air. "Mother Kos. Or, as some say, Kosm. As you once did for the vacuous Rom, grant us eyes. Grant us communion. Let us see."

A cold breeze picked up inside the sealed chamber. Micolash's body started to convulse as a sound, loud and clear but only in his head, shook through his core.

It was the curious moan of a child, enthralled by the prospect of a new toy. And then, it was a sniffle. And a cry. Mergo's emotional state seemed to fluctuate faster than anyone could keep track of.

"Mergo!" Micolash shrieked, hearing the Great One's wail through every pore in his flesh. "Receive us!"

Around him, the assembly of acolytes – his proud Brain Trust – began to shiver, their heads nodding up and down and around, tapping rhythmically against the bars of their cages. Some of them still had their eyes open, pupils darting about as Mergo's tantrum started to intensify. Blood pooled from their ears and down their cheeks. Their flesh rippled from the inside out.

Micolash himself was rigid still now. His body remained, lifeless, in the chamber, but his mind was free. He found himself crawling on the ground in a large courtyard. The pave, wet with rain that was at once both fresh and stagnant, shone brightly, bathing in the luminescence of a waxing white moon. The sky was dark, as empty as the inside of his skull.

In the centre of the yard was an infant's cradle. Micolash was praying to it, his head bowed, as Mergo's chorus of sobbing continued, the pitch becoming so intense that the very walls of existence seemed to peel away like an old tapestry under the duress.

Back in Ya'Hargul, the streets were crowded with onlookers, bundled together in corners and at windows. They had come to witness the dawn of the new era.

They had come to die.

Their bodies bloated and shrank simultaneously. The sensation was agonising; a flood that tore them apart from the inside. Mergo's wails parted their flesh, their bones melding into the stone walls and the earth below their feet.

Then, it stopped.

Mergo fell silent, as did Ya'Hargul.

Inside the chamber, every single member of the Brain Trust had fallen asleep, their minds drifting into a nightmare from which they would never awake. Gooey, fleshy liquid trickled out of their nostrils, escaping the barren cavern that had become of their heads.

Micolash himself sat in his chair, head tilting lifelessly forwards.

In his mind, he saw the cradle, vacant as he had always, fearfully, known it would be. He didn't even raise his head to look as an enormous, deathly-purple figure descended from the heavens, and draped its violet cloak around his eyes, slapping shackles on his wrists, and sending him falling through a vacuum of black, empty nothingness.

As he fell, the thoughts crept in. One stronger, and more insistent than the others.

The new world had cometh.

* * *

Maria sat up, her train of thought derailed and the carriages sent hurtling over the precipice of a cliff side.

Her ears pricked up to the soft, rapturous giggle of an infant, the echo of which reverberated around her head for a few fleeting moments before departing.

Rubbing her eyes, she rolled over and gazed up at the sky. The stricken purple clouds had dissipated, and the night was clear and calm once more. The blood moon was no more, new pearly rays of white streaming out through the arches of the clock tower.

Gehrman had not returned.

He had only been gone for half an hour at most, but she knew he was never coming back. And, if he did, she would never see him again.

She had made up her mind. She got up, and started to walk towards the clocktower.

It had been the dreams that had persuaded her. The kind of dreams that one experiences whilst awake.

Maria saw the bloodied streets of Central Yharnam at the stroke of midnight, and the brutalised bodies of things that had once been men strewn out upon the ground.

She saw the towering spires of Cainhurst Castle, and the hundreds of dead nobles, servants and knights that lay within them, reduced to bloody pulp.

And she saw the hamlet. Women and children screaming as the firestorms consumed their houses, and then their flesh. Dead bodies strung up as trophies, mouths stuffed with dead fish in one last scornful gesture.

The dead called out to her, pleading her to join them. They needed her. She would make them better.

"Lady Maria," the cold, dead corpses had sung. "Help us, Lady Maria."

And Gehrman, stood at the sidelines, watching. He, who would always forgive her.

And she, who never could.

She found her old chair and sat down it, feeling the wood creak under her weight. The sound was oddly comforting, and for a moment, she lost her resolve. But then, the smell of seared flesh came rushing back at her.

She clutched the bottle in her hands with cold fingers, picturing Annalise. The mother of the Vilebloods. The mother she had never had.

She wanted Maria to do it. One last act of defiance. A woman of Cainhurst should never have to submit to anything. Especially not imprisonment in a life that has lost all its meaning. Annalise had denied herself the opportunity, but for Maria, it was still there.

Maria wasn't immortal. She was flesh and blood. Human. That's why she was hopeful Gehrman would understand. They'd had their moment of happiness. More than some people have in a lifetime. Now, it was over.

She unscrewed the cap, letting the liquid flow between her lips and down her throat, burning slightly as it slipped down her throat. Maria shifted in her seat, feeling it settle in her stomach.

Knowing she had only a few moments left.

Calmly, she lay back, gazing up at the old, grand clock face. Watching each second tick by, none more or less significant than any other. They were all important. Every one.

It didn't take her long to die. As the minutes ticked past, she grew colder. The faces of the dead grew clearer, as she slowly edged closer and closer to her. They welcomed her in with open arms, and she let them, embracing their icy flesh with unflinching remorse and sorrow.

For just a few seconds, she glanced back. Back at the world she was leaving.

Back at Gehrman.

The moment was tiny; insignificant, perhaps. There was only one thing tethering her to that world, and he was there before her eyes, receding into the distance. Anyone else might have blinked and completely missed it.

But, it was there. And then it was gone, Maria wiping it away like a tear running down her cheek.

* * *

The people of Yharnam, all crowded outside the barred gates of Cathedral Ward, had been waiting for Laurence's return for a long time. The man who had left Old Yharnam to die, burning half of the town to cinders and leaving the rest to collapse under the weight of its own festering squalor was very much in-demand.

What they weren't expecting, however, was the thing that lumbered through the courtyard, surrounded by fifteen or so of the fearsome Church Giants, which the people of Yharnam had come to fear more than the beasts.

It was no beast that they had seen before.

At nearly fifteen feet tall, it was the largest creature to ever walk Yharnam's cobbled streets. It was bigger even than the giants which guarded it, which made for a laughable, if deeply-terrifying image.

Laurence, who had expected such a reaction to his appearance, welcomed their fearful glances with a giant, toothy smile. Resting on his heels, he drew up, and looked out over the crowd beyond the fence.

"People of Yharnam," he boomed. "I, Vicar Laurence, the founder of the Healing Church, bring to you today your salvation!"

The people recoiled at the brusqueness of his voice, a sentiment that was only exemplified by the accompaniment his ghastly appearance.

"We have all drunk deep of the Holy Blood," he continued. "Bathed in it. It courses through our veins. And it has shown me the future of this world!"

Many people started to flee. Those who stayed to listen seemed entranced, neither terrified nor engrossed – simply awestruck.

"What you see in myself is the final step of our evolution," Laurence declared. "You too shall embrace the beast, as I have. This is the holy way!"

Laurence could see some of the crowd drawing weapons – knives, Molotov cocktails, firearms. He ignored them. They could do him little harm.

"Maintain life before absolution," he growled, reciting his new favourite mantra.. "Drink deep. Tonight, Yharnam will be born again."

A bullet struck the vicar in his left calf. The sensation was akin to a pinprick, and Laurence simply sighed.

"Heretics will not last long in my new age," he hissed. "Make sure you go unseen, or else."

At that, he began to amble away. With his congregation receding into the distance, Laurence allowed himself a small grin.

From a nearby rooftop, Gehrman watched the thing that had once been his colleague as it crossed the courtyard and entered the confines of the Grand Cathedral, leaving its giant cohorts behind. Quietly, under cover of darkness, he pursued.

* * *

Laurence reached the altar, and let out a deep breath. He glanced down at his enormous claws, flexing them by the light of the candles that adorned the room.

He recalled Willem's words to him all those years ago. 'Fear the Old Blood.'

"Foolish old man," he whispered, snarling at the very image of the proud schoolmaster, rocking away in his chair, content to be ignorant.

"I have left you in the dust, where you belong."

The umbilical cord lay out on the altar, surrounded by a wall of incense that flooded the entire hallway with their earthy scents. Laurence prodded it gently with a nail, allowing its power to seep through him.

Growling deeply, he shuddered with pleasure, enthralled with his victory.

"Laurence."

The First Vicar froze at the sound of the voice. He felt his lips draw apart, tongue running along his gums apprehensively. He slowly turned his head, already feeling tension rising in his back and neck.

Gehrman stood at the end of the hallway, his scythe resting in his hands. His face was solemn.

Just a tiny speck at the end of the room.

Laurence clenched his claws, eyes narrowing. "Gehrman. Have you come to die?"

The First Hunter did not move. His eyes remained fixed on the gargantuan beast that he had once, very long ago, regarded as close to family.

"I've come to see the new age, Laurence," he replied.

Laurence felt a snarl rising in his throat. Taking an aggressive step forward, he retorted "There is no place for hunters in my world."

Gehrman started to walk forwards. "Those people out there aren't fooled by your speeches any more, vicar. They see you for what you are. You have nothing left."

The Cleric Beast opened its mouth wide and let out a startling shriek. Stunned, Gehrman briefly paused.

"Those sheep will follow me because it's what sheep do," he hissed. "I brought worth to this town. I raised it from nothing, gave it hope, protection, prestige. Nobody can take that away from me. Not you. Not Micolash. Not the League. No 'one."

Gehrman grit his teeth, glancing up at the towering behemoth. He had never fought anything like it before.

Suddenly, he didn't fancy his chances.

But there was no backing off now. He had a promise to keep.

Laurence roared again, and startled to amble towards him, the ground cracking slightly as his enormous feet hit the stonework.  
Gehrman seized his scythe with both hands, swinging it round to build up his heartrate. Laurence was nearly upon him.

And, above them both, the moon watched.

Curious.


	16. The Waking Hour

**Chapter Sixteen: The Waking Hour**

 _"_ _That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die..." – H.P. Lovecraft, The Nameless City_

* * *

The hunter falls into the grass in a thick column of white haze. Their clothes, steeped with the scent of blood, flesh and other foul things are enveloped within the damp foliage. Seconds later, they clamber to their feet, and stagger up the craggy hillside.

The doll watches them climb. It feels their incomprehensible strength - a wavering aura of carnage and chaos - radiating off of them in brief flashes.

The hunter, a young female with wavy hazelnut hair, reaches the doll, and falls to one knee, the doll outstretching its gummy fingers as though to embrace her.

"Welcome home, good hunter," the doll recites, ever elegant and cheerful, even in the face of abhorrence.

Rising, the woman nods courteously to the doll. "Where is Gehrman?"

Expression intact, the doll's eyes flit away from the woman and up one of the passages adorned with flora. "He is resting. His dreams are restless."

The hunter looks out across the hillside, past the meadows and up a winding path that lead to a small tree. Beneath its swaying branches is an old man. He's resting in a wheelchair overlooking a section of the iron-wrought fence that surrounds the confines of the dream world.

"He sleeps often, doesn't he?"

The doll bows its head slightly, as though consumed by a thought. Its eyes remain tender, and motherly, and it quickly returns its focus to the hunter at her side.

"He dreams, but he never sleeps," it says, voice nearly a whisper, and soothing to the very bones. "It is beyond him. It is forbidden."

Confused, the woman leans against the mossy stone wall at her heels. She removes her hat, placing it gently upon the cobblestones, and looks up at the slumbering Gehrman, trying to imagine what a sleepless dream must feel like.

"Does he suffer?" she asks.

"Not without reprieve," the doll explains, glassy eyes shimmering by the light of the brilliant full moon up above. "But he is restless. He has a task. It keeps him occupied."

The woman nods again, understanding. How could she not relate – without her own task at hand, she would have succumbed to the crushing grip of the beastly scourge long ago.

"Good hunter, you should rest," the doll insists. "Let the echoes soothe you, as they have many others."

Many others. The doll is referring to the multitude of unmarked gravestones scattered throughout the dreamscape. From the moment she had arrived in the dream, the hunter had tried hard to ignore them – the grey slates are an omen of darkness, and one of the few things in the humdrum comfort of the Hunter's Dream that puts her ill at ease.

' _Is one of those waiting for me?'_ the woman thinks, but soon dismisses the idea.

It is pointless – foolish even, for her to consider her mortality. Not when every mortal blow she sustains would bring her hurtling back to consciousness by the side of a lantern, basking in its warm blue glow.

And yet, every dream must end. And the young woman knows, somehow, that her time is soon to come. The moon grows brighter with every passing moment, every drop of blood.

Soon, she will awake. And what awaits her is a mystery.

* * *

The beast brought its claws smashing down onto the ground, the tiles splitting and wrenching out of their rest under the force. Gehrman, who had leapt away to evade the attack, came rushing forwards again, swinging his scythe in one, clean arc, and tearing straight through the towering behemoth's leathery hide.

Laurence screeched in agony, sweeping Gehrman aside with an agile swing from his right arm. The hunter sprawled out onto his back, but rose quickly, rolling lightly across the tiles as Laurence again brought his claws crashing down onto the earth.

Reaching a safe distance, Gehrman took a glance at the beast's wound. It was deep, and before his eyes coarse black blood was seeping out at a quickening pace. But it wasn't enough to bring him down.

Not nearly enough.

Cradling his wounded hip, Laurence started to lumber to the side, skirting back and forth and watching Gehrman with dark, cunning eyes. Gehrman tried to hold the beast's gaze, but the intensity of its glare, combined with the hideous gnashing of its jaws, proved too much to handle, and he pulled back. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Laurence was malformed, deformed beyond recognition, and yet, he retained every ounce of his intelligence, which was now bolstered by a primal, bestial instinct.

There was no doubt about it. This was his most formidable opponent.

The former vicar hissed, pure malice and loathing contained in each gust of simmering breath he exhaled. The image was frightful; nigh-on overpowering. But Gehrman was no ordinary man. Even the night trembled before him.

The hunter reached for his jacket, Laurence's piercing eyes following every twitch of his fingers. As the gangly brute started to lumber forwards, Gehrman's hand was withdrawn, producing a small glass vial filled with viscous black oil. With a mighty heave, he threw the vial, and it shattered against Laurence with a large crash, spilling across the top half of his hairy torso.

Snarling, Laurence came charging forwards. As he descended upon Gehrman, he drew out his clawed hands, and swiped, relishing the idea of tearing the troublesome hunter into ribbons. Only, he never made contact, Gehrman sliding beneath his attack and hurling another vial of oil at his legs.

Now dripping from head-to-toe in the coarse, sticky gunge, Laurence turned, arms outstretched in a feverish flurry of strikes. Gehrman jumped back, each successive attack bringing Laurence closer, and then farther away, from his evasive target. Now seething with rage, the frustrated beast leant back on the elongated heels of his feet, and launched himself forwards, arms flailing in a windmill of pounding blows. The ground splintered at his very touch, but Gehrman continued backwards, unscathed by the blows.

"Coward!" Laurence fumed, falling forward on the backs of his hands. "You hunters are all alike. Cowards, the lot of you!"

Gehrman, somewhat enraptured by the success of his strategies, called back. "There is no cowardice in facing the perils of the night, Laurence. The only cowardice is in hiding back and letting others do your work for you."

"You filthy swine!" The beast screeched, ambling forwards towards the stationary Gehrman. "You hide behind your blades and your pistols, too fixated on the beauty of your slaughter to see your true face. We are all the same! Beasts, the lot of us!"

His claws tore up the stonework, but Gehrman dodged away, pelting him with yet another oil urn.

"Willem was right about you," Gehrman proclaimed. "You are completely deluded."

Laurence's jaws shot open, a deafening roar exploding from the back of his throat. He leapt forwards, arms swinging after Gehrman. The hunter slid away, his body disappearing in a haze of white fog only to appear again, several metres away.

This time however, Laurence was prepared. Halfway through the charge, he put one arm out, stopping him dead in his tracks. Then, with a surge of murderous energy, he pushed in the opposite direction, his other arm smashing against the fleeing Gehrman as he tore backwards.

Gehrman saw nothing. His vision was pitch black, his ears flooded with a booming shockwave. He hit the ground rolling, his limp form pirouetting across the ground before coming to a halt just before the stone altar at the head of the cathedral.

Slowly, the world started to come back into focus. His eyelids cracked open, the white noise in his ears gradually receding. A trickle of blood ran down across his left eye as he sluggishly clambered to his feet, just in time to be snared by a gnarled, leathery fist and brought up into the air.

Laurence's visage – a twisted and unrecognisable reflection of the vicar's scholarly features – flickered before his eyes, and the beastly clergyman imparted an inaudible, hateful sentiment, before slamming his palm, Gehrman and all, into the ground at his feet.

This time, he felt everything. He felt his nose break, as flimsy and insignificant as a china plate, and a gush of fresh, tepid blood run down his cheeks. He felt his skull rattle, several of his teeth splintering on impact with the tiles. He felt his collarbone shatter like a wine glass. But he felt little pain. Even less the second time, as Laurence lifted him into the air and pounded him against the ground once more.

Laurence smashed the limp body against the ground a third and, decisively harder, time, before tossing him against the far wall, and leering back, his jaws parting in a guttural, and victorious gloat.

Gehrman saw the stone rushing to meet him, but his descent was somewhat peaceful – floaty, like a dancing feather caught in an updraft, spiralling back towards the earth. His body was broken, but in his mind, he was free from it.

Free from the pain.

Free from everything.

Maria was there, clutching his hand, her fingers warm between his.

"It's okay to give up," she whispered. "This isn't your fight anymore. Find your peace."

"I can't," Gehrman said back, his grip on her hand tightening. "I have to be with you."

Maria's eyes were sad, glossy with tears and something else – something he couldn't quite decipher. Seeing her sob at the notion of him fighting for his life was an unearthly sensation - like a piece of a broken mirror, it just didn't fit together in his head. It was like some cruel reflection of reality, created to torment him.

"I won't give in," Gehrman insisted. "You're worth fighting for."

Maria just shook her head. Gehrman ignored her – she wasn't real, anyhow. She was just a fragment of his own mind, a part of him that despised the pain, and wouldn't allow it to be inflicted upon him any longer.

Somewhere amidst the mess of flashing images, Gehrman felt his hand twitch. It crept across the ground, feeling blindly for his fallen blood vials, scratching at the cobbles until it found one and clutching it tightly.

Across the room, Laurence had finished his celebrations, and had returned to the foot of the cathedral's altar, where, instead of a holy prayer book, or some kind of incense, the old, bloodied umbilical cord was spread out.

The beastly vicar raised his clawed hands into the air above the altar, positioning them carefully and forming a pair of clock arms. One jutted upward, as though a hand reaching out for the cosmos themselves; the other, he held out to his left.

He began to recite.

"O flora of the moon, hear my voice," he started. "I have been granted eyes for the purpose of communion with you. Hear my voice, accept my offering. Come to me now."

The room shook under the authority of his voice. Cold wind flooded the empty cathedral hallway, the very air seeming to shiver, as though it were afraid of the forces that the vicar was playing with.

"O flora of the moon, bringer of compassion," he continued. "Let me recompense for our sin. Blood for blood."

For a few seconds, the beast's deep, raspy voice was gone, replaced by the calm, reserved intelligence of the old Laurence. He continued to recite, recalling the passages from memory, and stamping them on history with his dulcet, yet commanding tone.

But then, he stopped. The hairs on the back of his neck were rigid, standing tall like little soldiers. Baring his teeth, he turned around just in time to see Gehrman, on his feet, before the hunter swung the rope he held in his hands outwards, and the glass shattered against Laurence's back.

The vicar screamed, flailing his arms about wildly as the flames ignited upon his flesh. The fire, a bloody orange, spread with frightening speed, licking every corner of Laurence's flesh until it had consumed his entire body in a fine coat of flame.

Gehrman stood back; he watched through heavy breaths as Laurence stumbled back and forth, blindly reaching for something that would remain forever out of his reach. With a heavy thud, the vicar slumped against the altar, his beloved umbilical cord sharing in the passion of the flame as it was quickly set alight. Gehrman covered his mouth with a handkerchief from his jacket pocket as the pungent scent of roasting flesh, both beastly and celestial, filled the air.

He was about to toss another Molotov when Laurence suddenly drew up again, eyes blazing with near-catatonic fury. He started to run at Gehrman, agility seemingly-unfaltering even as the inferno continued to rage all over his body.

Gehrman sprinted aside as the cindering beast bounded past, arms flailing. To his surprise, Laurence continued straight on, down the stone steps and through the open Cathedral doors, all the while screaming bloody murder whilst his blackened flesh slowly peeled off.

Outside, dark clouds were gathering, a light drizzle cascading in the air. Laurence snarled as the droplets of rain sizzled against his charcoaled skin, steam rising off of the blackening coat as the flames on his body slowly started to dissipate. In a state of hysteria, the beastly vicar stumbled against adjacent buildings, his claws raking apart their weathered brickwork. His legs, propelled by little more than adrenaline, slipped, and he fell to the ground, arms sprawled outwards.

Beyond the perimeter of the courtyard, the group of riled citizens watched the vicar's downfall with renewed interest. Many of them had been about to turn around and head home, but seeing Laurence's unfortunate predicament, they started to get excited, ramming the locked iron gates with their homemade weapons – knives, spears and hammers.

Laurence's head snapped around, hearing the iron creak and start to give way. With a roar, the fallen vicar cried out to his ireful congregation. "Help me, you imbeciles! I am your leader! Your guiding light!"

His words did nothing to pacify the angered citizens, only provoking them further, and strengthening their blows against the weakening gate.

Panic started to flood Laurence. He tried to prise himself off of the ground using his left arm, but quickly realised that he would be unable to do so. Flexing his fingers limply, it was clear that Gehrman's flaming assault had left him with severe nerve damage.

He struggled to even raise his head as the metal gate finally caved, and the mob broke through his walls, spilling out into the courtyard and brandishing their weapons at him hatefully. Laurence tried to pull back, but managed only a slight flop.

"You worship me…" he hissed breathlessly, swiping weakly at the crowd around him. "I… am… your salvation…"

Gehrman came charging out of the Cathedral just in time to see the first Yharnamite bring their axe down on Laurence's wrist. The vicar screeched in pain as his blood shot out across the ground, pooling with the rainwater into a crimson puddle beneath him. More soon followed, smashing their blunt instruments and polearms into Laurence's hide; gradually bleeding him out. With every successive strike, the vicar's pleas grew steadily feebler, until he was simply unable to speak at all, his captivating, learned voice buried forever under the tide of cheering townsfolk.

"Goodbye Laurence," Gehrman whispered, jacket already dampening in the rainfall.

The hunter had to look away as the mob tore off his head, hefting it above them as a token of their victory. Even as he retreated into the distance, turning down a winding alleyway just to escape the noise, he could hear their jeers. The scent of burnt flesh seemed to be clung to the entirety of Yharnam, every street sign and lamppost infected by the stench. The odour recalled the hamlet, and the scent of death that permeated on the coastline the entirety of the return trip.

Gehrman quickly found his resolve draining away, resignation and trauma creeping in.

There was nowhere in the city that he could escape the frenzied thoughts that were flying into his head, the memories reaching out with gnarled fingers to pull him down and consume him - nowhere he could go to forget all of the lives he had taken. The blood he had spilt, all in the name of some mythic better world.

And that was what led him to the workshop. To where it had begun.

Their interest piqued, the eyes of the moon followed suit.

* * *

He sat down in the overgrown foliage at the foot of the hill, the damp soil cushioning his aching bones. The shadow of the old wooden workshop loomed across the entire outcrop, bathing it in the dark glow of its murky and ominous past.

As the weary hunter lay back on the ground, he recalled the many times he had walked these very grounds.

The workbench, where he had sharpened his siderite blade until it gleamed, eager to expunge the brown, rusted bloodstains that coated its surface.

The backlot where he had practised combat arts with his apprentices, showing them the best way to carve up a beast's flesh, or gouge out its glowing yellow eyes.

The workshop was long abandoned now, but the memories that had been forged there clung on, like phantoms, to their native soil. Spectres of hunters long gone walked these grounds nightly, dripping with ectoplasmic blood. Their bones, withered away by the great battles they had seen, lay beneath the earth, still trembling with the unreleased powers of their old bodies.

It was in that moment, picturing all of this, that Gehrman decided that he would burn the old place down.

The decrepit workshop was a shade of a past he intended to forget all about. Whilst it still stood on these hollow grounds, he could never truly be free, and he knew it.

He reached into his jacket pocket, the last of his Molotov cocktails leaning against the soggy fabric of the coat. Wrapping his fingers around it, and feeling the odd comfort of the cold glass on his weary flesh, he pulled it out, and turned to face the workshop.

And stopped.

Stared.

Gehrman had seen many things in his life. There were things that would haunt him for all of time, lurking in the darkest recesses of his worst nightmares. There were things that had mortified, baffled and confounded him, gnawing at his uncomprehending mind and taunting him.

But there was nothing – _nothing_ \- that could compare to this.

The workshop had taken on a hellish orange glow, which Gehrman quickly realised was a reflection of the sky behind. The cosmos were blazing with a bloody glow more intense than he had ever seen, even with his unfortunate history and affinity with blood. Strangely, it all seemed localized to his peripheral vision – behind it all, he could even see strands of a darker sky, obscured behind this peculiar veil. But he wasn't focused on the skyline at all.

Descending from the churning maelstrom of red, swathed in distinctive, angelic white hues, was a nightmare. A _living_ nightmare.

The thing was roughly fourteen feet in length. Despite being draped in leathery, silver tentacles that stemmed from its head all the way down to its torso, it had a vaguely human shape. Its limbs – two arms and legs – were bony, but proportional to the rest of its body.

However, most comparisons ended there.

The thing was truly grotesque. Gehrman's eyes fell on its chest – a writhing, gnashing set of teeth-like bones that resembled a ribcage – and the pair of snaking, contorting tails that trailed out behind it. A scream rose up his throat, ending up trapped behind his tightly-shut lips, whilst nausea akin to a wailing storm shook him from his core, stemming out to every cell in his quivering body.

He caught sight of its 'face' – a flat, empty slab of flesh parting in the centre to reveal a single, cavernous eye, which stared at Gehrman intently. Desperately, he clawed at his eyes, trying to shut out the thing's visage, but failed. The abyssal, cyclops eye could not be evaded; neither could the dissonant sensations of satiety and emptiness that it emanated, flooding Gehrman's fleshy shell and coursing throughout his blood.

The hunter barely felt himself fall onto his knees as the thing – birthed from the blood of the moon, and cloaked in its luminescence – landed softly in the grass in front of him.

Many minutes passed. Gehrman couldn't even find the willpower to breathe, his chest burning with agony as he shook violently, paralysed by the Moon Presence's gaze.

Finally, when it seemed he could not hold out any longer, the thing silently raised both its emaciated arms into the air, fingers creeping outward, and slowly released a fountain of bright white orbs into the air.

The luminous rays glided gracefully through the air, splintering into thousands of smaller, branching lights and sweeping outwards into the night sky, before finally beginning their descent, and coming to rest on the ground.

On contact, they exploded, their alien white glow flowing forcefully across the earth, and as, they brushed against Gehrman, turning the hunter's whole world into a blank, empty canvas.

* * *

The hunter distinctly recalls her first meeting with Gehrman.

After she had met with the mysterious wheelchair-bound doctor at Iosefka's clinic ministration, she had awoken in the dream, head weighted like butter and memories practically extinguished. Only one, singular thought seemed to exist in her entire mind, flooding it like a plague.

'Seek Paleblood to transcend the hunt.'

Shortly after her confused awakening, she had stumbled up the hill, past the inanimate porcelain doll on the steps and into the old, raggedy shack, where she quickly encountered the old hunter. He was sitting in his creaky chair facing the door when she entered, and he managed a flicker of a smile as he welcomed her in.

"Ah-hah, you must be the new hunter. Welcome to the Hunter's Dream. This will be your home, for now. I am Gehrman, friend to you hunters. You're sure to be in a fine haze about now, but don't think too hard about all of this. Just go out and kill a few beasts. It's for your own good. You know, it's just what hunters do! You'll get used to it..."

He wasn't wrong. The allure of blood was inescapable, the primal lust singing to her like a lullaby to a new-born babe. The hunt drew her in; captivated her, which only seemed to please the old man.

"You remind me a lot of someone I used to know," he had told her once, after she had returned from a fateful trip to the old lecture hall of Byrgenwerth.

"Oh?" the hunter had replied, curious. "Tell me about her."

Gehrman had seemed saddened by this, and he quickly tore away from her, wheeling himself out into the gardens and perching atop his favourite outcrop. The hunter didn't try to follow – she sensed that the old man was content in his solitude, and didn't wish to impose on him.

And yet, she was entranced by his mysteries. The impulse to discover all there was to know about this downtrodden, ancient hunter was nearly more compelling than the hunt. Her interest didn't go unnoticed by Gehrman, but despite his respect for her abilities, she was unable to leverage anything from him.

Not directly, that is.

One time she had found him lost in a dream at the outcrop, his head laid back peacefully in his chair. He had been muttering in his sleep before she drew closer, but when she did, he seemed to become even more feverish, his whisperings taking on a remorseful, even upsetting quality.

The hunter never forgot the words Gehrman spoke. They haunted her somewhat; as though she should she should know more about their meaning.

"Oh, Laurence..." he had said, tossing to the side restlessly. "Master Willem... Somebody help me... Unshackle me please, anybody... I've had enough of this dream... The night blocks all sight... Oh, somebody, please... "

The hunter had been taken aback. The old man rarely showed any emotion other than subtle pleasure at her progress, but now, he was pouring out his soul. Every word felt broken somehow, torn from the recesses of his mind in desperation to escape.

She had felt old Gehrman's sorrow that day. His agony.

It was heart-breaking.

But not nearly so much as what is to come.

* * *

Gehrman awoke in an unfamiliar place.

Only, at first glance, it wasn't unfamiliar at all. The surroundings he had found himself in were instantly recognisable as the interior of his old workshop, complete in every detail from the rows of extendable trick weapons on the wall, to the rack of blood vials stored in the apothecary cabinet.

But Gehrman knew at once that he was not at home. It was a creeping feeling, easily inadmissible as an imagining of the mind, but in this case, it was completely true. Subtle details gave it away – anyone who wasn't as familiar with the place as Gehrman would never know it.

A misplaced floorboard; a journal set down where it doesn't belong.

On a purely instinctual level, Gehrman knew that the workshop was an imitation. It was a near-perfect copy, but it lacked the soul of the real thing. It felt vacant, lifeless and plastic.

As his eyes ran along the walls, seeking out every single papered crack and blemish from memory, he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror, and froze. As he watched, his reflection tilted its head, and smiled, and Gehrman took a frightened step backwards, his thoughts scattering like a flock of birds in a cornfield.

"You're… not me..." he managed, instantly irritated by the witlessness of his words.

The reflection grinned even wider, ruffled its coat, and took a step closer to the mirror, growing several inches in size as it did.

"I would have thought that would be obvious," it spoke in Gehrman's voice. "I chose an appropriate form in order to converse with you. Have you figured out where you are?"

The frazzled hunter shook his head limply, and the reflection sighed.

"You're in a pocket dimension; a refraction of reality. Oh, and before you ask, I didn't give it that name. That was a human philosopher on the verge of madness. I liked it, though. It was cute."

Noticing Gehrman's expression, the reflection started to laugh. "The look on your face is priceless. I wish I could frame it but, alas, I have no hands…"

Gehrman grit his teeth together, determined not to relinquish any more of his dignity to this strange apparition. "What are you?"

"I thought you would ask me that," the reflection said, calmly. "I am, as the Pthumerians called me, Flora, the Moon Presence, and one of the Great Old Ones. Of course, Flora is not my true name; just a fabrication, based on the Pthumerian word for 'compassion.'"

Gehrman swallowed, trying to keep his composure. "Well… what is your real name?"

The reflection shook its head. "If I told you then your brain would melt out of your ears, and I'm afraid I need you all in one piece."

"That thing outside the workshop…. That was you?"

"Yes, that 'thing' is me," Flora grinned. "But even that is not my true form. There are some things that were never meant for unworthy eyes, like your own."

Gehrman balled a fist at his side. "I've killed a Great One," he said. "Few other humans can say that."

"No other human can say that," Flora replied. "At least, not yet. But if you think killing Kos' deformed wretch impresses me, I'm afraid you are mistaken."

"Well, what do you want with me, then?" Gehrman asked. "Why didn't you commune with Laurence? He was the one that wanted your audience, after all."

"That blind old bat could offer very little service to me," Flora said. "Although, I admit, his offering was most amusing. You, on the other hand, are different. I sense the ancient echoes coursing through your veins. You will make a worthy servant."

"That's not going to happen," Gehrman shot back.

Flora burst out laughing. "Oh, aren't you adorable? You think you have a choice. You don't."

Gehrman reeled backwards as a surge of immense energy struck him. He screamed, feeling his flesh rupture, and his bones peel away into dust. Then, it stopped, and he opened his eyes. He was down on his knees, hand outstretched towards the subservient reflection. He was physically unharmed in spite of how real all of the pain had felt, although he quickly realised he was no longer in control of any of his bodily functions. Slowly, his head raised all of its own accord, to face Flora.

"You humans confuse me," the Great One announced, the reflection in the mirror crossing its arms. "You involve yourself with concerns of morality and charity almost as a way of life. You let your emotions rule you. It is, frankly, a wasted application of brainpower."

"Emotions are what make us alive," Gehrman retorted, seething. "They define the quality of our living. I wouldn't expect an outsider like you to understand."

Flora cocked its head, considering. "You're right. I don't comprehend it at all. I find your way of thinking to be suffocating. But that's quite enough socialising. I didn't bring you here just to chat. I have a proposition for you."

"And what happens if I refuse?" Gehrman hissed, contempt for the Great One quite apparent in his tone of voice.

"Then I will destroy everything you have ever known," Flora answered, without even a second's pause for thought. "My reach is limitless. This dimension is but one of millions that I can traverse. I can reach into the worlds of the living, the dead, and the dreaming. I can pluck out their hearts, and burn their souls to cinders. I can take every experience you have ever shared; each and every one of your memories. Every soul you have ever loved. There would be nothing but ash. I would leave you empty. Barren; a shell. And you would be my prisoner for all of eternity."

Gehrman's head drooped, his breath caught in his throat. Flora beamed, seeing the hunter break like a corroded toy before its eyes.

"Of course, I could always assume control of your body and force you to do it all anyway. But I prefer to keep my hands clean. With a little persuasion, I expect you'll even want to do it for me. Anyway, now that refusal is no longer an option, it's time for you to hear what I have to say."

* * *

 ** _"_** ** _The first thing you should know is that I am not heartless. I am not cruel simply because I enjoy it. Obedience is best earned through a perfect harmony of fear and respect. That is why I will grant you your most desired wish."_**

Gehrman found the doll sitting on the stone steps outside the fake workshop. He lifted it off of the ground, feeling peculiar yet comforting warmth emanating from deep inside its porcelain chest.

The resemblance was uncanny. From its luscious blonde hair to its thin, elegant nose, it was a perfect replica of Lady Maria. Even the dress it wore was somewhat similar to the clothes she had worn on their last night together.

But it wasn't what he had asked for.

"Flora!" Gehrman shouted, gripping the doll tightly whilst his eyebrows knitted furiously. "This isn't what we agreed!"

Instantly, the Great One replied, its voice echoing inside of his head.

"I don't recall agreeing to anything."

"I asked you to bring me Maria, not this cheap imitation!"

Flora didn't seem to appreciate his tone. The hunter fell to his knees as pain ricocheted through his body like shockwaves, every nerve in his flesh screaming in agony as they were lit up with sparks.

"Don't mistake this for charity, hunter. I gave you what you need, not what you want."

And then they were gone, leaving Gehrman on his hands and knees, glowering with rage and humiliation. He scooped the doll off the ground, intending to throw it across the balcony into the endless chasm of white nothing that surrounded the workshop, but stopped, screaming as the doll looked back at him, its glassy eyes blinking.

 ** _"_** ** _Now that we've got the niceties out of the way, it's time to explain the terms of your service."_**

Gehrman pressed the barrel of the pistol to the side of his head. The chilling metal felt strangely pleasant against his flesh, in spite of what he intended to do with it.

He glanced around the deserted dream, half-expecting to see Flora watching closely from somewhere concealed. But, seeing nothing besides the barren dreamscape and the endless void that surrounded it he closed his eyes, whispered a silent apology to Maria, and pulled the trigger.

But there was no shot. The bullet never left its chamber, and the only sound that greeted Gehrman was the empty click as the gun stalled.

Again, and again.

He dropped the pistol in the grass, his first real tears pouring down his cheeks as he realised that everything Flora had told him was true.

He was a prisoner of the dream.

 ** _"_** ** _Let me tell you about your new position, as sentinel of the dream. I need someone to watch over this place in my stead, bringing me new blood in service of the hunt. Oh, what's that you say? A Great One, in favour of the hunt? Well, this is no ordinary hunt we will be conducting. This hunt… is different."_**

The workshop went up in flames quickly.

Gehrman appreciated that even a Great One can make mistakes, and indeed, it seemed that leaving lighter fuel in the storeroom cupboards had been a decisive error on Flora's part.

The hunter grinned as the rich, earthy scent of smouldering wood filled his nostrils, and the endless white sky was strewn with billowing black smoke.

Then, his smile faded completely, as the flames were suddenly and completely dissipated, as though doused with an invisible pail of water. As the smoke cleared, Gehrman saw the shack, completely unscathed by the flames, standing in its place, and with a soft, sombre moan, he fell to his knees on the ground.

 ** _"_** ** _I need people like you, whose lust for blood is more meaningful than barbaric slaughter for barbaric slaughter's sake. To this end, I will need your blood. Lots of it."_**

After the floorboards had cooled down, Gehrman trudged into the workshop, and stopped by the door as he noticed a small silhouette in the corner of the room. He drew closer, warily, until the light from the candle on the desk illuminated the form of a rusty wheelchair, rolled against the back wall.

Flora's voice came at him like a gust of wind.

"That's quite enough trouble from you, hunter. How about you take a seat?"

Gehrman sneered. "I don't think so…"

But he soon changed his mind as the Great One sent great bolts of lightning to crash down on his mind, and with quivering hands and trembling legs, he settled into the chair.

"This work is going to be very straining on your legs. I would stay in the chair, if I were you. It'll be better for your back."

 ** _"_** ** _The art of blood ministration is an avenue which the Healing Church only briefly explored, but it is by far the most effective way to utilise the old blood. Believe me; I have some idea about these things. Yes, with the blood of Yharnam's finest hunter, we have the ability to craft the perfect hunter out of any potential subject. We just need them to come to us, under the guise of treatment. That's why we're going to open a clinic."_**

The first one they sent him was young. Far, far too young.

Gehrman could see that the strength of the ancient echoes was too overpowering for the young man to master. He had already been weakened by his exposure to the beastly plague, travelling all the way from an eastern land on the word of a storyteller to be treated at Iosefka's Clinic.

But, to his credit, Yamamura was a willing pupil, and eager to learn from Gehrman, once his predicament had been fully explained. The budding hunter wielded an old Cainhurst weapon, the Chikage, and as Gehrman watched Yamamura tempering the blade at the workshop's blacksmithing bench, memories of the battle of Cainhurst came flooding back.

Bloodied ice. Corpses pounded into mush.

"Where did you get your sword?" Gehrman asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Yamamura turned round to face his mentor. "After the fall of Cainhurst, several black market merchants were able, through other parties, to obtain a small collection of the blades with the intention of high-price sale bidding. My father was one of the first to own one."

Gehrman nodded, thoughtful. "So, you yourself have never been to that forsaken castle..?"

Yamamura shrugged.

"That is good," Gehrman said. "Promise that you will never go there. Some things are meant to be left in the past."

The young hunter smiled. "Of course, master," he said, before returning to his forge.

 ** _"_** ** _Your job is to provide guidance to these hunters. Believe it or not, few men are willing to work if they believe that their employers are manipulating them. That is why we must spin a fantastical web of deception. By spilling paleblood, they could be brought closer to a cure to their affliction."_**

Yamamura grew steadily into a fine hunter. Gehrman started to see less and less of his young prodigy, and eventually, he stopped seeing him at all. Of course, this led to a fair bit of concern for the older hunter, and so he decided to investigate.

He ventured out of his usual resting spot inside the workshop, and saw Yamamura at the foot of the stairs, conversing with a hooded figure.

The Doll.

"Yamamura," he called out. "Stay away from that thing."

The young hunter looked puzzled. "But master, the doll has provided me with much support. She is a great comfort in these dark times."

Gehrman felt his fist curling. "I cannot believe you of all people have allowed yourself to be drawn into her deception. She is a fraudulent demon, put in this dream to sway our minds. Keep away from her, or else!"

He saw the hurt in his pupil's eyes, but chose to ignore it. As he rolled back inside, he tried to figure out why seeing Yamamura with the doll had provoked such a violent reaction from him. He knew it wasn't out of fear for the young hunter – he knew that Yamamura could handle himself by now. No, it wasn't about him at all. It was about the doll.

It was about him, and how he couldn't bear the thought of anyone else loving Maria – even it was just an effigy, and poor reflection, of her.

He resolved right there and then to slaughter that doll.

 ** _"_** ** _We will need to shepherd them to our goals. To this end, I suggest using a series of lanterns, spread throughout Yharnam and its territories. You may feel guilt over using people this way - I urge you not to dwell on it. But of course, once they have outlived their practicality, you may do with them as you wish."_**

And yet, he couldn't do it.

It wasn't that the Doll resembled Maria. In fact, its theft of her identity was one of the driving thoughts that satiated his raging bloodlust. Nor was it her resilience, always rising again after being knocked to the ground by an enraged swipe of his scythe, or a close-range blast from his pistol.

It was something about her eyes. Those dull, green globes radiated life from them like something from one of Laurence's old holy hymns. Every time he found himself caught up in their glare, his will flooded away, and his scythe fell from between his fingers.

One day, when he had resolved to keep his eyes fixed firmly upon the ground, he found himself instead affixed by the thing's eternally-adoring gaze. Before he could register it in his mind, he had wrapped his arms around the thing, and planted his mouth firmly upon its porcelain lips.

The Doll did not reciprocate; but neither did it resist. When Gehrman pulled back, and started to tear off the thing's clothes with the hunger of a starved beast, it just watched him plainly, eyes glistening, wondering whether Gehrman's actions were a sign of love for his creation, or merely the desire of a desperate, lonely man.

 ** _"_** ** _Certainly, you should avoid becoming attached to them. They serve a purpose, and then they die. They are bound by the cycle, and exist merely as a spoke in the great wheel of fate."_**

Yamamura died not long after his previous encounter with Gehrman.

Once he reached the age of thirty, Flora decided that he was no longer of use to it, and since he seemed reluctant to abandon his new role in the Dream, the Great One ordered Gehrman to do away with him. And so it was that Gehrman led his pupil out into the grove just beyond the workshop, where the enormous oak tree overlooked.

"Master, this silence is worrying," Yamamura said, as he followed Gehrman out into the centre of the grassy bank. "Is something concerning you?

"No," Gehrman replied, stopping very suddenly in his tracks, and turning to face Yamamura. The young hunter's eyes lit up with fear as he saw the siderite blade in Gehrman's twitching hands, and started to back up.

"Forgive me," Gehrman expressed, before leaping forwards and stabbing Yamamura straight through his neck. As the hunter fell, his old master caught him with his free arm, and held him close, cradling his body as it slowly grew colder, and his heartbeat fell to a crawl.

"I hope you will understand one day," Gehrman whispered, as a solitary tear ran down his cheek. "Death is a release. It is a blessing to reach the waking hour."

And with that, he laid the hunter softly in the grass.

 ** _"_** ** _Now, you may be wondering… what is the purpose of this hunt? What is 'paleblood'? Now, remember, being granted such knowledge is a privilege, not a right. To be completely transparent with you, this is not a hunt that man should ever undertake. It is a hunt to rid the world of the forces which unbalance it. It is a hunt for the Great Ones – my brethren. Why do I want to kill my own kind? That's simple – it's because I am the alpha being, and they have no place in my world. Scattering paleblood ensures my dominance over this realm, and all realms."_**

The next one he was sent didn't last nearly as long. But that wasn't surprising, considering his choice of arms.

Simon was an unusual hunter in that he seemed to regret killing beasts. Not enough to actually stop his hand, but enough to give him something of a divided conscience. On the few occasions that Gehrman spoke with him, he discovered that the young hunter had a different path in mind.

"Don't you think it fascinating?" he asked, drawing back his bowstring until it was parallel with his mouth. "A whole town, burnt to cinders, just disappears overnight? That's no illusion. Something happened there that people don't want us to know about."

Gehrman knew at once that Simon was referring to the Fishing Hamlet, and a cold dread, just like the waters from that fateful day, started to clamber through his guts.

"Perhaps some secrets are best left undiscovered," Gehrman offered, flinching slightly as Simon suddenly fired his arrow, the bow-blade twanging as it soared across the field and struck the great tree in its centre.

"You can't truly believe that," Simon said, eyebrow curving up his brow. "I mean, look about you. Does it not strike you with awe to see that a place like the dream could exist around us at any moment in time? A whole other realm of existence beyond our eyes? It's fascinating."

"Aye," Gehrman replied warily. "But you are a hunter, not a magician."

"There's always the future to look forward to, Gehrman," Simon smiled, nocking another of his luminous silver arrows. "You must know that, right?"

The older hunter sighed, glancing at his feet. "I know very little of the future these days…"

 ** _"_** ** _Yes, it was I that brought Kos to the brink of extinction. Although I have you to thank for slaying her demented offspring; I knew you were destined for greatness from that very first second I saw you, deep in the Pthumerian labyrinth. Oh yes, I have been watching you and your kin for a very, very long time, waiting for you to fulfil your true potential. That day has now come."_**

Simon fell onto his knees, bowing his head and unfurling the garbs that obfuscated his neck. Gehrman raised his scythe hesitantly.

"And this will grant me freedom from the dream?" Simon asked, eyeing Gehrman.

The older hunter nodded solemnly. "Death is the only freedom you will ever be offered."

"Then I will take it without hesitation," Simon stated.

Gehrman drew back his scythe, and swung forwards, cleaving straight through the base of Simon's neck. The hunter's headless torso fell to the ground, and Gehrman felt the tremor erupt throughout the dreamscape, the grass wavering and iron convulsing.

Flora's voice invaded his thoughts. "You seem to be getting quite fond of slaughtering your kin, don't you?"

"Don't patronise me," Gehrman snarled. "You know exactly why I have to do this."

"Of course," Flora barked. "It is as I told you."

 ** _"_** ** _With the spillage of paleblood comes a great risk. Hunters who channel too many of the ancient echoes may become one themselves. A Great One. This is an unacceptable risk. Any hunter who refuses their right to execution must be granted it by force. But, it is a strange thought. Who would be foolish enough to deny their own freedom?"_**

Eileen was a strange young girl - that was for certain. Her loyalty to Gehrman was unwavering, bordering on adoration, and it unnerved him slightly. He wasn't sure he wanted it.

What was more, she seemed to embrace the hunt far more quickly than most of his previous protégés. She saw it as some kind of game, and viewed hunters as rivals, often butchering them if they crossed her path in the waking world.

Gehrman watched her one day as she practised in the old meadow beneath the tree. Her Blades of Mercy, glistening in the twilight, were a whirlwind, arcing around her as she pirouetted through the glade, leaves fluttering about in her wake as though caught in her pull.

"Impressive."

Eileen spun around, her blades aimed at the older hunter. Upon recognising him, she lowered them instantly, clutching sheepishly at her arm.

"Master," she acknowledged. "I… am thankful that you think so."

Gehrman chuckled, somewhat endeared by her nervous energy. "No need to be thankful. Your training is something to behold. You remind me a lot of me in my championing days."

"That is a true compliment, master," Eileen stammered.

Her fingers trailed through her hair, Gehrman recognising the motion immediately, and bracing as a sharp pang of loneliness shook him down.

"Eileen," he began. "You should forget about me."

The young hunter blushed wildly, realising that Gehrman knew exactly what she had been thinking. "Master, I-"

"I am humbled – flattered, even – by your affections, but I'm afraid that I could never return them."

Eileen's gaze fell. "Do you think me unattractive?"

"Absolutely not," Gehrman insisted. "But my heart belongs to her another. She is lost, but I will find her… one day."

Eileen's head stayed bowed for a few moments, before raising again, a forced smile on her lips. "I hope you find her," she said, before returning swiftly to her training.

 ** _"_** ** _Well, anyway. If one should refuse, you know what to do."_**

There was something about this recruit that made Gehrman pause. He seemed familiar, in a distant but endearing kind of way. Ultimately, his suspicions about Djura were seemingly confirmed when he confronted the hunter about his past.

"My mother and father were lost in the flames of Old Yharnam," he explained. "I was raised by my uncle. It was a... tumultuous childhood, to be sure."

Gehrman noticed the man's eyes welling up with tears at the thought of his parents, but decided not to press further. The concept of time didn't seem to exist in the dream, and although he knew that his hair was starting to grey, and his bones ached after a lifetime of confinement to his chair, he wasn't entirely certain how long he had been a prisoner of the dream.

"Old Yharnam," he said. "How long ago was that?"

Djura looked at Gehrman, trying to decide if his master was teasing him. "It has been nearly twenty years since the death of Laurence; when my parents were finally avenged. So, it has likely been twenty-one years since that terrible atrocity."

Twenty-one years.

Gehrman knew he had been in the dream for far, far too long, but he hadn't realised quite the extent of his confinement. As his eyes traced the walls of the cemetery, and the heads of hundreds of tombstones jutted out at him, he realised that such ignorance had been utterly foolish.

"I should like to return there," Djura continued. "Old Yharnam, that is. The district was flooded with flame, but some still remains. Perhaps I might find some closure there."

Gehrman nodded, only half-listening. "You can accomplish anything… once you awaken..."

 _ **"**_ _ **By this point, I'm assuming you have a pretty solid grasp of what it is I am asking you to do. You are to remain here in the dream for as long as you are required. If you remain devoted to my will, when the time comes, I will set you free. How long, you ask? Well, it could be as soon as a year's time… It will not last forever, I assure you."**_

* * *

Gehrman sits beneath the old tree.

Beside him, the workshop is consumed by flames. The scent of cindering wood floods the old hunter's nostrils; the hazy smoke clings to his old, tattered coat. His aging, withering fingers grasp the rests of his wheelchair tight as he sees the hunter. She enters the meadow through the rusty iron gate, and gazes up the hillside towards him.

Gehrman inhales deeply, savouring the moment. Tangled within the ever-familiar stench of flame was a subtler scent – the aroma of flowers in bloom. His eyes briefly well up with tears.

The floral scent reminds him of Maria.

The hunter watches him closely for a few passing seconds, before she slowly treks up the slope, her feet trawling through the multi-coloured clusters comprising the nursery. She wonders how the flowerbeds are so pristinely-kept. Realises that the details are not important.

Nor ever have been.

"Good hunter," Gehrman calls out as she approaches. "You have done well. The night is near its end."

The hunter stops just a few metres short of the old man. Her eyes lock with his.

"Gehrman, what's happening?" she asks, confused and more than a little frightened by the blazing spectacle unfolding beside them. "The Doll told me to meet you here."

Gehrman nods, a sage-like wisdom about him. "The time has come, good hunter. Now, I will show you mercy."

"What?" the hunter replies, her expression ambivalent.

"You will die, forget the dream, and awake under the morning sun." Gehrman leant forwards lightly, his weathered cap sliding down his head. "You will be freed, from this terrible hunter's dream."

The hunter takes a nervous step away. She looks greener; as though she might throw up. "Are you going to kill me?"

Gehrman shakes his head, smiling softly. "I am going to set you free."

"I… I can't let you do that," the hunter stammers, readying her cleaver. "I'm sorry, Gehrman."

The wizened hunter freezes, his expression betraying his disbelief. Then, he laughs –a cold, harrowing sound that gives the younger hunter a jolt of liquid terror.

"Dear, oh dear…" Gehrman jeers. "What was it? The hunt? The blood? Or the horrible dream? Oh, no matter."

The hunter begins to back away, her feet heavier than blocks of concrete as Gehrman rises from his chair, his bones audibly creaking as they shift and bend for the first time in countless long years. Her eyes grow wide as he slowly produces a gleaming curved blade from beneath his chair.

"It always comes down to the hunter's helper to clean up after these sorts of messes," he says, violently ramming the hilt of the blade into a shaft slotted into his back. As the metal groans, and the newly-formed scythe extends to full length, the hunter tightens her grip on her cleaver.

Gehrman's eyes fall on her, bloodthirsty mania blazing in the old man's haunted corneas.

"Tonight, Gehrman joins the hunt," he whispers.

He starts to walk down the hill towards her. She takes a fearful step back, raising her flintlock pistol in his direction, barrel aimed at his gently-heaving chest.

"Don't make me do this," she warns. "You don't stand a chance against me, Gehrman."

But even as she says it, she knows there is no truth in it at all. She sees Gehrman's will, a fiery, tempered determination that has never petered out, even over the course of his lifetime. A strength that he has carried from his very first hunt, and will continue to do so, right up to his very last.

He suddenly leaps forward, the blade of his scythe dancing through the air as he spins through the air, just like the many flower petals that his movement has shaken up. She dodges underneath the swipe, narrowly avoiding decapitation, and turns sharply, slicing her cleaver through the back of the old hunter's raggedy jacket.

Gehrman grimaces as he lands, but doesn't falter in the slightest. He turns back around, holds his scythe up high, and channels energy directly from his blood. The aura surrounds him like a protective cloak as he rises into the air, and volleys a huge wave of energy at the hunter, whose dodge only takes her out of its epicentre. As the energy dissipates, the flowers rippling as though caught in a strong wind, the hunter is caught by a blast, and sent spiralling onto her back on the earth.

The first hunter wastes no time, charging forward with a downward slash, fully intent on ending it right there and then. But the hunter is too quick, rolling aside as Gehrman's blade cleaves the soil bed open. He quickly tries again, this time aiming for the hunter's midsection. Again, she dodges, this time retaliating with a well-aimed blow from her elongated cleaver.

Gehrman staggers back, smelling the foul scent of his own tainted blood for the first time in decades. He stares at the hunter as she crushes a blood vial, her vigour fully restored by its mystical powers, and runs at him again. This time, their blades connect in the middle, both combatants reeling back against the force of the blow. Gehrman feels his feet slipping in the earth, and leaps away, just as the hunter fires a bullet ascribed with his name in his direction.

Both hunters stop for breath under the glow of the moonlight. Gehrman gazes up, briefly wondering if Flora is watching the battle, and swiftly realising that the Great One is always watching.

"Why fight?" the hunter calls out to him. "Have we not both bled enough in the name of this hunt?"

"For the dawn," Gehrman replies, composing himself. "For the sunrise…"

Whilst his opponent considers his response, Gehrman suddenly splits his scythe, holding his treasured siderite blade in his right hand and taking out his aged pistol in the other. He lunges for the hunter, his blade carving through the front of her armour as she dives away. Before she can recover, Gehrman loads his pistol, and shoots her in the torso, causing her to fall back. He leaps forward, grabbing her by the throat, and piercing her stomach with his blade.

The hunter's eyes close as Gehrman retrieves his blade, her blood spilling out over the hillside. She lands, and starts to crawl limply across the ground towards her discarded satchel. Gehrman watches her, pitying.

"You must accept your death," he whispers. "Be freed from the night."

He jumps up, curving his blade in a downwards arc as he plummets to the earth. But suddenly, she is gone, body disappearing in a haze of white mist that Gehrman recognises instantly. As he surveys the battlefield for his missing opponent, he can't help but feel respect for their proven ability.

"You are a fine hunter," he says, calmly watching for any sign of her reappearance. "You are wasted in the clutches of this terrible dream."

"I know." The hunter's breath comes warmly in his ear, and as he pivots she plunges her cleaver through his ribcage, and sends him sprawling to the ground in an explosion of blood.

Gehrman's face hits the flowerbed. His nostrils part as he breathes, pain momentarily forgotten as the sweet aroma of a fresh garden fills him. Not for the first time in the fight, his thoughts return to his beloved Maria. With his life slowing ebbing away, he endeavours to join her.

" ** _Not yet."_**

Flora's voice batters down his ears and cold dread seeps through the last parts of his body that still feel. A single tear rolls down his withered cheek.

 ** _"_** ** _You want to be free? You must kill her."_**

Gehrman's fingers weakly grasp a cluster of nearby flowers by their stems as he struggles to rise. He feels Flora's will flooding through him, granting new life to his failing flesh. Across the way, the hunter watches, terrified, as the first hunter climbs to his feet, and disappears in a cloud of smoke.

Gehrman sees the hunter standing before him. Knows what his death will mean for her. For the dream.

He vows not to allow it.

She hears his harrowed cry echo across the meadow, loading another bullet in the chamber of her pistol as the outline of his body begin to reform itself just a few metres in front of her. The gun goes off. She sees Gehrman's face, forever twisted in scream of torture, and then she impales him with her saw blade, and he falls onto his knees before her.

His head is bowed. Blood has completely covered his shirt, its silvery scent drifting on the wind. Slowly, he slumps forward, imparting one last remark.

 _"_ _The night and the dream were long…"_

His face crashes into the soil and his body goes limp. The hunter shields her eyes as he vanishes, exploding into a white mist before disappearing entirely.

As he is dying, Gehrman's last thoughts are of the morning, and the sunrise he would never see.

* * *

To his surprise, Gehrman wakes up.

Beneath his blood-stained jacket, he feels the cold damp of rain-spattered tiles, and is instantly reminded of the cobbled streets of Yharnam. The time when he was awake.

When he was free.

To his further astonishment, despite the gory mess coating his clothes and the surge of adrenaline that was still coursing through his veins, he is physically unharmed. The wounds he sustained in battle with the young hunter are gone. As he slowly lifts his head from the ground, he inhales deeply, breathing in the soothing scent of industry and canals, and recalls what it means to be truly alive.

 _'_ _How appropriate,"_ he thinks. _"_ _Now that I am dead."_

He climbs to his feet, the shackles placed upon him by the dream shattered, and his will finally limitless for the first time in countless years. At first, he feels tremors of sorrow, knowing that his defeat will have left his prodigy at the mercy of Flora. The guilt is nearly enough to send him crashing to his knees once more.

But then, he freezes, heart caught in his mouth.

Before him is the city of Yharnam, and it has never looked so beautiful. Once a winding labyrinth of beast-infested squalor, the city is reborn a wondrous, picturesque scene. Between the looming spires of the cathedrals and chimneys are brilliant, golden streaks of yellow. The morning sun.

To be sure, the city is unchanged since he had left, but in the absence of any other environment but the suffocating lethargy of the dream, he might as well have stumbled through the gates of paradise. And perhaps, in his own way, he has.

Above him, the great clock tower looms, its great peak nearly piercing the sun. As he gazes up at it, he allows a smile to creep onto his lips. He doesn't know whether Maria will be inside. He doesn't even know if she shares this world with him. But he won't rest until he knows. And perhaps, not even once he does.

After all, he has the whole world in the palm of his hand. He has endured through the dream to live another day.

He has finally awoken, and the nightmare is over.

* * *

 ***Cue the music!***

 **watch?v=2COYyuNMOkM**

 **And thusly ends 'The Origin of Dreams', my all-time favourite work of fanfiction. I would just like to wholeheartedly thank every last person who stuck with me in the writing of this story. It has been a pleasure to write this, and an even greater joy to see that so many have enjoyed it. In particular, I would like to thank my good ole buddy Leider Hosen for his invaluable contributions throughout the tale, as well as the many others who have offered me criticism upon which to improve the story. I couldn't have done it without y'all** **J**

 **Oh, and of course, a most courteous 'Hunter's Salutation' to Mr. H.P. Lovecraft, to whom we are owed Bloodborne, and its dark, enticing story.**

 **Praise that goddamn, bloody moon.**


End file.
